


Reality and Other Conundrums

by nottinghamroad



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Proposal (2009)
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Family Dynamics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2308013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottinghamroad/pseuds/nottinghamroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a successful New York City editor about to be deported as his visa from the UK is expired. John Watson is his dutiful editorial assistant who agrees to marry him so he can stay in the country. Will their relationship hold up to scrutiny from Immigration Services?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Late Start

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the following tumblr post: http://whybenedict.tumblr.com/post/97418011281/okay-but-a-johnlock-the-proposal-au 
> 
> Thanks for the suggestion/inspiration! I hope you all enjoy, please let me know what you think! Feedback is always appreciated.

John Watson turned over in his sleep, stretching languorously. His head lolled on his shoulder and he caught a glimpse of the time. 

6:45 a.m. Shit! He cursed internally and rolled out of bed, clumsily hopping from foot to foot as he de-robed from his pajamas and pulled on his work suit. Dress pants, button-up shirt, shoes, socks….where was his suit jacket? He ripped clothing off the hangers, building a steady pile of shirts and pants around him until his eyes finally fell on the appropriate jacket. 

His heart sank a little further in his chest. It was wrinkled and there was a small stain on the left lapel. No way that was going unnoticed. Fantastic start to the morning, really. Just great. He surveyed the disheveled jacket one last time and huffed. It would have to do. On the jacket went, and out the door John scampered. 

New York City was never a calm place, but this morning the din seemed especially thunderous. The cross-street from John’s apartment building was bumper to bumper with cabs leaping forward unexpectedly at every chance they got. Starbucks was directly across the street from his apartment, so it was unrealistic in terms of time to go all the way up the block to the crosswalk. So John chanced it. Dashing in between impatient vehicles and nasty taxi drivers comprised the first challenge of the morning: not scuffing up his suit any further. 

Mercifully, John reached the other side of the road without any major physical mishaps. He flung the door open to the Starbucks, and a groan escaped him as he realized that the line snaked all the way around the store. 

“Why me, God, why me?” The irreligious prayer escaped John’s lips before he could think otherwise. He stared around the store, looking for some way to speed up the transaction. 

“John!” A small voice lifted itself above the chatter of the morning crowd and held up a drink tray with two identical coffees in either corner. John sighed in relief and made his way up to the counter. 

“Molly, you’re a gem. And a lifesaver. You really are, and I owe you so big,” John pledged, taking the drinks from the blushing brunette and handing her some money. Molly waved him off merrily and went back to handling the morning rush. 

The second test of the morning now presented itself: run six blocks without building up too much of an underarm sweat stain and without spilling the hallowed pumpkin spice lattes. The Boss insisted that he have the fall-themed drink year-round, which was a bitch for John when trying to convince the local Starbucks to carry the syrup year-round. Also took a toll on his poor pocketbook.

The Boss also liked the lattes searingly hot, above 175 degrees Fahrenheit. John’s dance was not only to sprint to his job while keeping the drinks in tact, he also had to avoid being singed by any spillage of said drinks. 

He danced around the crowd in the Starbucks, trying desperately to avoid bumping into anyone. And being unsuccessful several times, earning him dirty looks and a burnt thumb from a little overflow of one of the drinks. 

Great. This day was going splendidly so far. 

He entered the street. 

The six blocks breezed by relatively uneventfully, with the coffees staying resolutely in the drink carrier and John narrowly avoiding getting reamed by a taxi driver on the last crosswalk before he entered the Baker Street Publishing building. He arrived at the front door and took a moment to breathe deeply and collect himself before entering through the revolving door. 

Tie straightened, shirt tails tucked in-good. Things seemed to be in order. He pushed his way through the revolving door, and-wham. 

Hot pumpkin spice latte trickled down the front of his formerly pristine white shirt. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” John fumed, staring at the trail of coffee that was now a prominent feature on his suit. The intern he had bumped into looked thoroughly abashed. 

“I am so sorry, sir, I honestly didn’t mean to, are you alright?” the young man blathered, wringing his hands. John shook the excess latte off of his and scowled at the younger man. 

“Enough groveling, Wiggins, just-” John looked around feverishly, hoping The Boss hadn’t arrived yet. “Give me your shirt.” Billy Wiggins looked at him blankly. 

“Your shirt, your shirt!” John implored. “Now!” The pair ducked behind a wall and quickly exchanged shirts, so John’s work suit was once more clean. He plucked the remaining pumpkin spice latte from the drink carrier, sprinted down the row of cubicles into The Boss’s office, laid it on his desk, and straightened the papers and manuscripts that lay there for good measure. 

Just as he had finished, the unmistakable rhythm of Baker Street Publishing Editor Sherlock Holmes’ stride accosted him from behind. John spun around and sat at his computer that was opposite his boss’, pretending to be busy. 

“Watson,” the tall man greeted him brusquely as he walked by, his long coattails dancing from side to side. 

“Mr. Holmes,” John returned the greeting, not daring to tear his eyes from his screen. Sherlock Holmes picked up his drink from his desk and gave it an experimental sip. John turned slightly in his chair to gauge the man’s reaction. Good, he seemed to be pleased with the temperature. The editor turned the cup in his hands, enough so John could catch a glimpse of a familiar untidy scrawl on the back. His heart sank. Oh, Molly….

“Who is ‘Molly’ and why does she-” Sherlock paused to smirk- “want you to call her?” The curly-haired, impeccably dressed man turned the side of the cup with Molly’s phone number to face a shamefaced John. John turned around completely in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. 

“Well,” he began, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as if to say this is gonna be good, “that was originally my cup,” he finished. Sherlock lowered his eyebrow. 

“And you drink-” he took another sip- “pumpkin spice lattes made with almond milk?” John bowed his head. Sherlock set the drink back down on the desk. “Or do you just get precisely the same drink as I do in case some mishap like this happens?” John didn’t move. Sherlock smirked again, picked up the drink, removed the sleeve from the cup, and beckoned for John to follow him out of the office. John leapt up smartly from his chair and followed Sherlock into an office next door. 

“Anderson, how are you,” Sherlock greeted the chestnut-haired editor who was hastily flipping through a file folder at his desk. Sherlock kept his voice calculatingly cordial-John knew he wasn’t really happy to see Anderson at all, and only dealt with him as a matter of necessity. 

“What do you want, Holmes, I’m busy,” Anderson spat, rifling through a desk drawer. Sherlock took a leisurely sip of his coffee. 

“We’ve been through this, my good man, it’s Mister Holmes to you.” Sherlock swirled the contents of the cup, waiting for Anderson’s reaction. When none came, he continued. “Anyhow, we may as well get down to business. I asked you to get Frank to do that interview with Oprah next week, and you didn’t do it.” Anderson looked up from his paperwork, eyes narrowing. 

“Frank won’t do Oprah. He’s a recluse, Holmes, you know that.” 

“Well that’s strange then, isn’t it, because I’ve just given him a ring and he’s agreed to do the interview,” Sherlock finished his drink and threw it expertly into Anderson’s trash can. The other man’s mouth was slightly agape. 

“But that’s impossible, Frank’s as stubborn as they come and he wouldn’t bend so much as an inch for me!” Anderson’s indignance was palpable. 

“Obviously it’s not impossible, or I wouldn’t have just done it,” returned Sherlock, folding his arms and leaning up against the wall. Anderson spluttered. 

“You must have blackmailed him-or something-I don’t know, but you can’t have gotten him to agree! There’s just no way he-”

“Clearly he did agree, and clearly you’ve outgrown your usefulness here as a result.” Sherlock’s words were crisp. Color visibly rose in Anderson’s cheeks. 

“You can’t fire me!” he thundered, rising from his seat and advancing on Sherlock. The curly-haired Englishman didn’t flinch. 

“I just have,” he asserted, straightening up to maximize his height difference against Anderson. “You’ll need to have your possessions removed from here by closing time or I will have that done for you. Are we clear?” Anderson didn’t say a word. Sherlock turned and left the office, John following quickly behind him. They stood a few yards outside of Anderson’s office. Sherlock crossed his left foot over his right in an affected gesture of relaxation. 

“What’s his status,” he muttered to John, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of the fuming Anderson. 

“Pacing,” John informed him, “eyes bulging out of his head, and-ah-” 

“YOU UTTER COCK!” Anderson came bursting out of his office, an accusing finger pointed at Sherlock. Sherlock eyed him with mild interest, as though he were watching a second-rate cooking show. 

“You have only fired me because you are lonely and power-crazy and have to show that you have some authority because you have a secret!” ranted Anderson. Sherlock gave a small, patronizing nod. Anderson paced back and forth and pointed at Sherlock again. 

“And that is that you are a friendless freak! Everyone here only tolerates you because they’re terrified of you, and without this company you have nothing! You fired me because you are threatened by me!” Anderson paused, breathing heavily. Sherlock pursed his lips. 

“Are you finished,” he asked, words clipped. Anderson gave no response. Sherlock closed the gap between them in two long strides and stared down the shorter man. 

“I am not threatened by you, Anderson. The very idea is laughable. I fired you because you are ungrateful, incompetent, and utterly idiotic at what you do. If you don’t leave here in the next hour I will have you thrown out on your sorry arse by security and John here will film it and put it on-” he gestured for John to finish his sentence-

“YouTube.”  
“Right, YouTube, and it will be seen by everyone at this company, making your humiliation even more complete than it already is. Is that what you want?” Anderson’s eyes widened. Sherlock gave a self-satisfied smirk. “I thought not. Now get out of my sight, I have work to do.” 

The lanky editor turned with a dramatic swish of his coat and headed back to his office, slamming the door behind him and John. Both exhaled when the coast was clear.

John could have sworn he caught something dark cross Sherlock’s face as he busied himself with a manuscript on his desk. 

But it was probably a trick of the light. 

“John.” Sherlock was imperious. 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” John turned in his chair to bestow his full attention on his boss. 

“I need you to schedule that meeting with Dr. Frankland for late this afternoon, and push the meeting with Miss Donovan until tomorrow.” Sherlock flipped a page in the manuscript, not bothering to look up. 

“I’ll get right on that.” John turned back to his computer and was immediately startled by the door opening and very nearly hitting him in the face. It was Billy Wiggins. 

“Mister Holmes, you’re needed upstairs with management.” The intern always delivered messages to Sherlock as though he were about to be consumed by a dragon’s flame. Sherlock’s eyes flicked upwards from the manuscript he was reading. 

“Tell them I’m busy,” he commanded the young man, who looked even more uncomfortable. 

“They-they said it’s very urgent, sir,” he said, his eyes trained on the floor. Sherlock sighed dramatically and set the manuscript on the desk with more force than was entirely necessary. 

“God, the imbeciles I have to deal with.” He rose from his desk, took his coat off, and flung it across his chair. He addressed John as he left- “If I’m not back in ten minutes, come and get me.” John nodded and returned to his computer. 

Ten minutes came and went, and there was no sign of Sherlock. John straightened his tie and made his way upstairs to the management office. He arrived at the door and heard Sherlock saying something indignant, but wasn’t focused enough to hear what. No matter. He poked his head through the door, and adopted the most charmingly apologetic expression he could manage. 

“Sorry, gentlemen, but Frank is on the phone for Sherlock and I’m afraid he’s about to have a meltdown-” John stopped in the middle of his sentence, disarmed by the way Sherlock was looking at him. It was a mixture of his I’ve-just-hatched-a-plan expression and as if he’d suddenly seen a whole new world in his editorial assistant. John smiled uncertainly. 

“E-everything okay?” he faltered. Sherlock extended an arm towards John, who opened the door more fully and walked towards the taller man, confused. Sherlock snaked the arm around John’s waist and kissed the top of his head. Okay, now John was really confused. 

“I just-wanted to make an announcement to you boys,” Sherlock said, adopting what John knew to be a horribly affected expression of tenderness towards John. 

“John and I are getting married.” 

What?! John swallowed hard, unsure of how to deal with this development. 

“We are,” he said slowly, realizing it was better to play along with whatever scheme Sherlock was hatching than to try to fight it in front of management. “We are….getting married,” he affirmed weakly. 

The management men looked at them both blankly. 

“Yes,” Sherlock continued, “as you can see, John and I were just two people-” 

“Two people,” John echoed. 

“-who weren’t meant to fall in love, but we did.” 

“We did.” 

“And ah, you-” Sherlock swooped in to kiss John’s cheek, “you can’t fight a love like ours, can you John,” he turned to John and plastered a fake smile across his face, which John returned hesitantly. 

“No….you….you certainly can’t,” John conceded, gently tapping his head on Sherlock’s shoulder in what he hoped looked like an affectionate gesture. The taller of the management men seemed to have collected himself from the initial shock. 

“Well, congratulations then boys, I’m uh-we’re very happy for you,” he stammered, spreading his hands. Sherlock gave a curt nod and released John, folding his hands behind his back. 

“So that should clear things up then, shouldn’t it?” Sherlock stated, fixing them with an unblinking gaze.  
“Um, yes, you will just need to get HR to file a copy of your marriage license and then your green card when it arrives,” explained the shorter manager. Sherlock nodded again. 

“That won’t be a problem.” He turned and exited the room with a flourish. John had to take a moment before moving, his head was spinning so quickly. 

He was going to marry Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have to work out an agreement for the terms of their sham marriage. They get married, and go to the INS office where they meet their immigration officer, James Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments and for reading! Posting as things get finished pretty much. Also thanks to my fantastic beta, hermadnessmac.tumblr.com for keeping my prose sharp and making it funny and also putting in sexual tension.

He was going to marry Sherlock Holmes. 

Yes, that had definitely just happened. 

John followed in the wake of Sherlock’s long stride back to the office to get his coat, and then outside the building on the sidewalk, where his long, lean boss finally paused. One of Sherlock’s ringlets fell across his forehead as he tapped out a message on his phone while talking to John. 

“So we’ll go to city hall now, get the marriage license, bring it back to HR, and then after my green card has cleared we can get a swift divorce and call it good.” Sherlock finished tapping out the message on his phone and looked up at John, who wasn’t responding. The taller man waved a hand in front of John’s face. “Hello? Pay attention! We need to get moving, or the green card won’t get in soon enough for that book fair in Dover next month.” 

John cleared his throat and folded his arms. 

“I’m sorry, did I just agree to marry you so that you can stay in the States legally? On some kind of spousal visa?” John’s voice was tense. Sherlock looked at him, frustrated.

“Yes, and then we’re going to get a divorce once everything has cleared. Do keep up.” He went back to tapping on his phone. John shook his head. Unbelievable. This man was truly unbelievable. He snatched the phone from Sherlock’s hands and slipped it in his jacket pocket. 

“John!” Sherlock gasped, incredulous. John had to stifle a harsh laugh, the taller man looked like he had his puppy run over. Sherlock motioned anxiously for the shorter man to give his phone back. John folded his arms again. 

“If we get caught for this, we will be fined and _will probably go to jail_. Didn’t even consider that, did you? Why should I put myself on the line like that for you? As I recall I owe you exactly zero favours.” John tapped his foot expectantly. Sherlock mimicked John’s arms akimbo. 

“That manuscript of yours you keep leaving conveniently on my desk,” Sherlock challenged. “I will make sure it gets published if you go through with this.” John furrowed his brow, considering the opportunity. 

“Sure. It gets published, 20,000 copies for the first printing, and you promote me to editor. Immediately, not in two years, not ‘when you get around to it.’ Immediately.” John shifted his balance to the other foot, daring Sherlock to challenge his terms. The taller man pursed his lips. Sherlock’s chest was puffed out in a show of indignance, making his purple shirt strain at the buttons and making John wonder for a split second what would happen if one of those buttons went _pop_ ….

“Fine.” Sherlock’s concession brought John back to earth. 

“And, you have to ask me nicely.” Now it was John’s turn to smirk. Sherlock scowled. 

“John, will you please-” 

“Nope. You have to get down on one knee and ask me like you mean it.” John’s expression was belligerent. Sherlock sighed dramatically and folded his arms, as if daring John to make him. John raised an eyebrow and began tapping his foot on the concrete. They remained locked in this staring contest for several moments.

At last, Sherlock humphed and knelt in front of John, fanning his coat out around him. He took the blonde man’s hand in his. 

“John.” 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Reliable and bullheaded John.” 

“I’m listening.” 

“Would you pretty, pretty please, with cherries on top, marry me?” 

“Mm, okay. But I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.” 

“Thank God.” Sherlock leapt to his feet. “Now can we get on with this and get to city hall?” 

“You lead the way, fiancee.” John made an exaggerated gesture in front of himself, and Sherlock scoffed, but obliged. 

Sherlock made sure that the officiant at city hall made the ceremony no-frills and quick. At the urging of the over-excited government employee, he gave John a perfunctory kiss when the employee had pronounced them husbands. They made their way out with a marriage license in hand half an hour later. 

“Why, Mister Holmes. You never told me you were such a romantic. I probably should have married you earlier, I mean, what a ceremony!” John teased Sherlock as they made their way to the INS office to file the license for a spousal visa. His mood was a little more boosted by the kiss than he was willing to admit. Sherlock gave him a Look but didn’t say anything as they swung the door open to the INS office, again dismayed by a long line. 

Sherlock made one visual sweep around the room, and then pushed to the front. 

“I’ll need you to file this application for a spousal visa,” he ordered the frazzled-looking attendant. 

“Sir, you can’t just push to the front of the line like this, these other people-”

“Of course I can,” Sherlock returned, his stare hawkish. “Just file the paper, would you? I need the express option for having it sent to me so I can get the green card application underway. Before the attendant could protest anymore, a lackey behind her took the papers and began entering them into the computer. The attendant sighed and motioned weakly towards the seating area. 

“Sit over there, an agent will be with you shortly.” John followed Sherlock over to the seating area and resigned himself to people-watching as the taller man remained glued to his phone. 

John had always hated government offices like this one. They were full of frustrated people, most of them exhausted and at their wits end in one way or another.It was downright depressing. He could hear a young baby screeching behind him and cooing noises from who he assumed was the mother. Good on her for trying, but the baby was determined to give his lungs the best workout possible and screamed on, occasionally dissolving into plaintive sobs in between yells. John turned back around in his seat and massaged his temples. Kids weren’t too bad on the whole, but crying babies were an absolute nightmare. 

When he lowered his hands back to his lap, he caught sight of an Indian couple directly across from him and Sherlock. The husband was asleep on the wife’s shoulder. An overexcited toddler sat next to them, bouncing up and down in her chair and chattering to her mother about a dog she had just seen outside. In front of the mother sat a carseat that held a tiny baby boy who was stretching in his sleep. John couldn’t help smiling at the picturesque little family. And also the quiet baby. 

“What,” Sherlock snapped, not even looking up from his phone. 

“Nothing,” John replied, catching the toddler’s eye and smiling at her. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“I need you to work overtime this weekend,” he announced, hitting send on a particularly long email. 

“Mr. Holmes, I can’t, it’s my grandmother’s 95th birthday and I promised my family I’d go home for the weekend-” John protested, trying desperately not to give in to the shouted rant that was building up inside him. 

“Do we need to re-negotiate the terms of our agreement? I fired Anderson, so I need your help with a couple of manuscripts. Tell your family you’ll see them later,” Sherlock commanded. John sighed again and made a mental note to call his cousins once they had gotten out of this blasted immigration office. 

“Mister Holmes and Mister Watson?” A pale, dark-haired man in a smart navy blue suit stood at the front of the room with a clipboard in his hands. Sherlock and John rose in unison and walked to meet the man. 

“My name is James Moriarty, and I will be handling your case. I see you’ve filed a marriage license already-” his eyes skimmed down the paper and widened briefly- “ah, you’ve only just gotten married a few hours ago! How charming.” His voice dripped with false enthusiasm that made John feel a little sick to his stomach. Moriarty turned and beckoned for the pair to follow him to his office. 

It was a small space, but was impeccably kept with a couple of landscape photos on the wall and a photo of Moriarty next to a man who was several inches taller than him with brown hair several shades lighter and piercing grey eyes. 

Moriarty motioned for them to sit down, and they obliged. He detached the papers from his clipboard and stacked them officiously on his desk. 

“Mister Sherlock Holmes,” he drawled in a vaguely Irish lilt, leaning back in his chair and surveying Sherlock, who sat with his back ramrod straight, face impassive. “And his secretary. How...romantic,” smirked the pale immigration officer. 

“Assistant,” John corrected him. “Editorial assistant, I’m-” 

“Much more important than a secretary, you have a vital role at the company, blah blah blah,” Moriarty waved his hand, shutting John down. He trained his eyes on Sherlock again. 

“Now, Mr. Holmes, I understand you’re a big-shot editor down at Baker Street Publishing. Is that correct?” 

“Obviously.” 

“And you are here, working in the United States on an expired visa from the United Kingdom?” 

“Also obvious.” 

“Don’t you think it looks a tiny bit suspicious that you’ve suddenly gone and married your assistant once immigration is after you for an expired visa? Doesn’t it look even more suspicious that you’re due for a possible promotion to chief editor and now you’re suddenly married?” Moriarty’s tone had suddenly gone very sharp, and he leaned across the desk to make unblinking eye contact with Sherlock as he spoke. John was biting the insides of his cheeks so hard he was starting to taste blood. Sherlock didn’t look fazed. 

“Of course it looks suspicious. But everything and anything can look suspicious depending on the eye you’ve got, and if you’ll forgive me, your eye seems like one of a bored government worker who’s seen one too many crime dramas and is just dying to break a fraud case of his own.” Sherlock paused to draw breath, and Moriarty’s eyes narrowed after moving past their initial expression of surprise. His jaw set, Sherlock continued. 

“John and I got married today because we couldn’t wait any longer and were-ah-” Here Sherlock’s eyes twitched over to John for some support. 

“We were tired of keeping our relationship a secret, and wanted to come out into the open by finally getting married,” John supplied. “You understand the pressure, of course, people often have less than tasteful things to say about an assistant who dates their boss, much less ends up marrying him.” 

Sherlock’s hand suddenly descended on John’s knee and squeezed tightly in what John was sure was meant to be a gesture of thankfulness and affection, but ended up elevating his color and spiking his heartbeat instead. 

Moriarty leaned back in the chair again, considering what John had just said. 

“Fair enough. What are your plans for the weekend? The two of you?” His expression had softened slightly, but something still told John it was affected. This man’s mask seemed to be in place quite firmly. 

“Manuscript-” Sherlock began, but John cut him off. 

“We’re going to go and visit my family in Alaska for a week actually. It’s my grandmother’s 95th birthday.” Sherlock still hadn’t removed his hand from John’s knee, so John took this opportunity to cover Sherlock’s hand with his own. Which was somewhat unsuccessful, as the man had absurdly large hands. 

“How romantic,” Moriarty remarked. “What a nice honeymoon.” He paused for a moment, tapping his pen on his desk. “The circumstances still require that I perform a follow-up interview wherein I ask you both individually questions about the other person. Things married couples would know. Then there will be an inspection with the two of you in a couple of months to make sure you’re not just going to divorce as soon as everything clears.” John swallowed, sure it was audible this time. 

“That won’t be a problem,” rejoined Sherlock. “I expect you’ll contact us when the time is appropriate?” 

“I will.” 

“Good then, may we leave here?” Sherlock removed his hand from John’s knee and set it in his lap. “You may.” Moriarty’s tone was still tinged with suspicion, but he said nothing more.  
Once they were out of earshot, John turned to Sherlock. 

“So you’re coming to Sitka with me this weekend, then?” He raised his eyebrows, sure the whole ruse in front of the INS officer was about to fall apart. 

“Yes. I’ll have to know at least something about your family if we’re going to maintain this ruse.” Sherlock spoke quickly, something John knew he did when he didn’t want to admit that he was wrong in his initial rebuttal of John’s plans. John kept his expression neutral, but wore a very self-satisfied internal grin. 

“I guess I should call my cousins, then. Let them know we’re coming.” 

“Guess you should.”


	3. Flight Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John fly to Sitka to meet John's family. Along the way, they try to share more personal information to make their marriage more believable, "try" being the operative word. They meet John's grandmother and his cousins at the airport and head to John's family's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and for the comments & kudos! Really really brightens my day, and I love hearing from you guys about what you think of it so far, even when you're pointing out errors. Keeps me sharp, so keep it up! Thank youuuu <3

The next morning John found himself on a first-class seat headed from JFK to Anchorage. How Sherlock managed to get a direct flight was completely beyond John, and he didn’t even want to think about how much those tickets cost. At least his seat was spacious. Sherlock sat next to him, absorbed in something on his computer and typing furiously. John tried to get a glimpse of what his boss-well, technically, his husband-was doing on the computer, but Sherlock was too quick for him and closed the laptop before John could see anything. They sat silently for several minutes, staring ahead. 

“Well, we should probably brush up on some of this personal knowledge stuff for the immigration interview next week,” ventured John. “And also for my cousins’ sake.” 

“What is there to brush up on.” Sherlock had an annoying habit of phrasing questions as statements, and John bristled at it every time. 

“It’s just, I know everything about you, and you don’t know anything about me. Could prove problematic once the interview rolls around.” 

“You don’t know everything about me. What’s my favorite coffee?” 

“Pumpkin spice latte. Give me something difficult, for god’s sake.” 

Sherlock harumphed and tapped his chin. 

“What am I allergic to?” 

“Pine nuts, and the full spectrum of human emotion.” 

“Cheeky.” 

“That’s why you married me.” 

John immediately regretted allowing the phrase to escape his lips. It wasn’t that jokes never passed between him and Sherlock, but that one seemed too personal. _Come on, Watson, can’t keep yourself together at all, can you?_

An uncomfortable silence passed between them. John cleared his throat. 

“Ah-my favorite movie is Harvey.” 

“You’re joking. The one where James Stewart plays that nutter with a massive rabbit-”

“He’s not a nutter!” John argued. “It’s a moving tale of a seemingly insane bloke who turns out to know more than everyone else. It’s got, ah-” his argument was flagging, and he knew it- “rousing family values and unexpected romance.” The rest fell out of his mouth and he scratched the back of his neck. “You know what, forget it. Just remember that Harvey’s my favorite. You don’t have to like it as well.” 

“Good,” Sherlock turned his head a minute amount towards John, just enough so the shorter man was able to catch the ghost of a playful grin on his taller counterpart’s lips. 

“My favorite subject in secondary school was biology.” John ventured, not trusting himself to make eye contact with Sherlock without fixating on his lips. 

Sherlock frowned. “But you work for a publishing company.” 

“I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t love other things, though. Always loved to study plants.” Now he was beginning to ramble. Was this really the way to share personal information? Rambling? Maybe not, but it was happening anyways. “Plants are just...quite soothing to look at and to care for. Makes for a nice hobby, even better when you know the science of what’s going on.” 

“I feel the same way about bees.” 

“Bees? Really? Have you ever kept a hive?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Once, when I was younger. My brother convinced my parents to get it for me, but they all died once winter came round. It was, as you said, soothing.” 

Beekeeping. John never would have figured Sherlock Holmes for the type. Perhaps he knew a little bit less about his boss than he thought he did. 

The remainder of the flight passed amicably enough, with Sherlock and John occasionally exchanging superficial anecdotes about books they liked (Sherlock was in the middle of a Mao biography, while John was taking on his fifth Jack Reacher novel), recent news, and manuscripts that had crossed Sherlock’s desk in the past week. Eventually the conversation faded, and Sherlock took to staring out the window and John to people-watching on the plane. He started eavesdropping on an iMessage conversation. Some poor sap across the aisle and up a row from him was getting into it with his girlfriend, and wasn’t bothering to cover up their screen at all or even turn it so other people couldn’t see it. More entertainment for John. Right as he was about to find out if the man was about to break up with his girlfriend, something heavy and soft descended on his shoulder. He turned to the side, only to be greeted with a faceful of Sherlock’s curls. 

Sleeping Sherlock. Not an unpleasant sight. Better than bossy, awake Sherlock. John couldn’t help himself. He inhaled. Fresh, but then again it wasn’t a surprise to John that his fastidious boss would have good personal hygiene. And...it smelled a bit like almonds. Unexpected. John didn’t figure Sherlock for the type to use excessively masculine shampoos, but almond was more of a distinctive scent than he would have guessed for the high-strung editor. The curls were soft, too, and fell gently across his face, framing it in a bit gentler way than usual. The editor almost looked a bit innocent in his sleep. 

“We are now beginning our descent into Anchorage.” The tinny voice of the captain jolted over the PA system, but it still didn’t wake Sherlock. John pursed his lips, wondering what the best way to wake his boss was so as to incur the least amount of wrath. He went with tapping the editor gently on the shoulder.

“Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes, we’re going to land soon. Might be a good time to get your belongings together?” Sherlock jerked awake, his eyes wild. John tapped his shoulder again in what he hoped was a comforting way. “It’s alright, it’s just me.” Sherlock regained his composure quickly and sat up straight. 

“John, you’re going to have to start calling me Sherlock if you want our marriage to be even the least bit believable to your family.” 

John nodded. “Glad you have so much faith in me.” 

“The most, as always.” Sherlock replaced his computer into his shoulder bag and steepled his fingers under his chin, elbows on the armrests as the plane landed. 

______________

The flight from Anchorage to Sitka was not nearly as contemplative and conducive to conversation as the one into Anchorage. Sherlock descended into a positively foul mood as the puddle-jumper handled turbulence very poorly and there wasn’t a single smooth moment the whole flight. 

“Where in god’s name does your family live that one would have to take such a terrible flight to get here?” He burst out towards the end. 

“The Alaskan boonies, pretty much,” acknowledged John. He gripped the sides of his seat to brace against the latest spurt of turbulence as the plane touched down. Once the pilot had turned off the fasten seat belt sign, John leapt out of his seat and swiftly took down his and Sherlock’s bags from the overhead compartment. Sherlock stared around mulishly as John set his bag down next to him.

“Where’s the terminal. I don’t see a jetway.” 

“That’s because we get off on those fancy stairs attached to the plane right on the tarmac. That work for you, princess?” John fired back, his frustration with Sherlock’s prissiness starting to mount. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned downward in a slight pout, but he didn’t say anything.  
They exited the plane to hoarse cheers from an old, short woman standing on the tarmac. Standing next to her were two women in their upper-middle-age, one with luxuriously long chestnut hair and the other with wild ginger locks. John hopped nimbly down the stairs, leaving Sherlock to struggle with his comically large bag. He set his bags down and swept the old woman into a bear hug. 

“Granny Hudson! How lovely to see you, you look fantastic!” She kissed his cheeks enthusiastically and patted his shoulders when they broke the embrace. 

“Oh, John,” she sighed. “It’s so good to see you, and I heard you were bringing-” 

And here Sherlock arrived, setting his bag down with a small, indignant noise and standing with his arms folded. 

“And this must be your boyfriend!” enthused Granny. “I do hope you treat our Johnny well, we tell him to do a less stressful job all the time, but he never listens, does he!” She stood on her tiptoes to kiss Sherlock on the cheek, a gesture he accepted with only a hint of his usual begrudging attitude towards physical contact. 

John turned to the other two women there and smiled at them. 

“Irene. Kate. Really lovely to see the two of you as well.” Kate approached John first and hugged him fiercely, her wild ginger hair smothering his nose briefly. 

“I’m just so happy for you,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “Everyone should have someone to make them happy.” She broke the embrace and smiled at John again. Irene was considerably more aloof, and bestowed only a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, which John accepted while wearing a rather tight smile. Kate then turned to Sherlock. She looked as though she was going to give him a hug, but instead went for a handshake, which he accepted.

“Car’s out front,” Irene gestured towards the tiny terminal area of the Sitka airport. 

_______________

Sherlock was way out of his element. John’s family clearly adored him. Even that Irene woman, though she was less expressive with her emotions, was also enamored with John. Their emotions were easy enough to understand, John was an agreeable person with a pleasant smile who always got done what needed to get done. In short, John was a charming person, something Sherlock had never mastered. He plastered on as much of a smile as he could manage for the family, but couldn’t muster up affection as genuine as theirs was. That would have to be something to remedy as the week went on. Or at least remedy as much as possible, for the sake of the immigration interview, of course. 

The car ride from the airport only served to intimidate Sherlock further. Sitka was a small town completely dwarfed by the massive mountains that rose up around it. Snow-capped peaks were not something Sherlock had ever seen in person before, and something about them was unsettling. They were lonely and utterly majestic and terrifying all at once-entirely too much going on within the existence of an inanimate object. He elected to stare horizontally out the window at the town going by rather than allowing his gaze to drift upwards towards the mountains. 

He supposed Sitka had aesthetic appeal. Its storefronts had an old European feel to them, but a rustic touch that was distinctly American. Everything seemed as though it was family-owned as well. Which appeared to be beneficial to a town, when lots of things were family-owned. Sherlock believed he had read a book regarding small town homicides and how they were especially detrimental as they threatened the unity of a town which was contributed in part to by family owned businesses. 

And then it hit him. 

“John,” he hissed, trying to not get the attention of the other women. John was also staring out the window and didn’t hear Sherlock. So Sherlock poked him, hard, in the side. “John!” he hissed again, and the blonde man jumped and turned to face him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you belonged to some type of Alaskan Royal Family?” Sherlock knew his tone was verging on accusatory, but it was a weighty omission. Every small business in town was plastered with the family name “Watson”. John’s jaw immediately hardened. 

“Because I knew you would react like this, and then judge me through that lens instead of as myself, and on my own merits as an editorial assistant and even as a writer.” John folded his arms. “Just let it go, alright?” Sherlock pursed his lips and didn’t say anything else, but privately he knew this wouldn’t be the end of it. 

It was at this point that Kate expertly pulled the car into a parallel parking spot near what looked like a dock. Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked outside. 

“I thought we were going to your house.” Sherlock tried desperately to stay civil. 

“We are,” John returned, exiting the car and opening the trunk. 

“But we are at a dock.” 

“So we are.” John took his bag and one of Sherlock’s over his shoulder as he followed the other women towards several docked boats. Sherlock hefted his other bag and scrambled after John. 

“John, you know I can’t swim,” he muttered. John rolled his eyes.  
“Hence, the boat.” John gestured towards the bow cruiser that Kate was already starting up. They reached what looked like a dropoff that led to the boat below, but upon further inspection Sherlock realized there was a ladder leading down to the docking area. John dropped the bags he was carrying onto the dock and then climbed swiftly down the ladder. Sherlock surveyed the dropoff, suspicious. John turned his gaze upwards to look at Sherlock. 

“Just throw me the bag, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Sherlock.” The taller man corrected him. John shrugged and held his arms out to catch the bag. Sherlock obliged, though hesitant. Once John had successfully caught the bag, his curly-haired counterpart gingerly made his way down the ladder. _One foot after another…..that’s the ticket. Just don’t get ahead of yourself, and the ladder problem will resolve._ He reached the bottom and put both feet on solid ground, proud of himself for reaching this point. John exhaled behind him. 

“Congratulations,” he monotoned, humor playing lightly behind the jab, “I’m a hundred.” Sherlock couldn’t come up with a witty reply fast enough, so he opted to brush by John towards the boat, running into him harder than was probably necessary. This only seemed to heighten John’s amusement, and he burst into quiet peals of pleasant laughter.


	4. Sitka Estate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock arrive at the Watson estate in Sitka. Granny Hudson has a shindig to kick off her birthday weekend, has a little too much wine, and demands an engagement story from the happy couple....

John had forgotten how ostentatious his family’s estate was. Then again, he didn’t exactly make it a practice to remember many details about his family to begin with. Honestly, it was usually better to just pretend as though they didn’t exist and to get on with his life in New York. Considerably less trouble that way. 

Sherlock was clearly surprised by the scale and opulence of the house as well, judging by his wide eyes and slightly open-mouthed expression. John clapped him on the shoulder as Kate pulled the boat into the dock. 

“You get used to it,” he said bracingly. “Well, not really. You just learn to deal with it. I know it’s all a bit much, so just muddle through as best you can.” 

“I’m sure I’ll find some way to get by,” Sherlock managed, his words clipped. 

“Ah well, you’re always so adaptable.” John hefted his bag out of the boat and onto the dock as Kate tied up. Irene stayed behind with Sherlock to help him with his bags and take him up to the house, and Kate and John went ahead. 

“Well, John, I’m just thrilled to have you here for all the festivities.” Now that they were back at home in Kate’s comfort zone, her bubbly personality started to foam over as she spoke. “We’re going to have a little reception tonight, and then Granny’s party will be on Sunday. And then we’ll have a few days to ourselves to really just enjoy this beautiful town, you know? Sitka’s such a wonderful place to live and I always feel like I’m rushing around to different things with Irene! She’s always got one fundraiser or another to go to, or a charity ball, or a dinner with the state senate….” she trailed off. “At any rate, it’s always something. And that gets exhausting. Thank god it’s recess time. I’m glad she can be at home most of the time while the senate is in session, but I do miss her at home, you know? At times it feels like I’m in a long-distance marriage.” Kate finished, the corners of her lips turning down slightly as she came to this realization. John took pity on her and put an arm around her shoulder. 

“Well, you knew you weren’t signing up for anything easy when you married my cousin,” he consoled her. “She is a brilliant, sharp, and fierce woman, and those types of women never come cheap and easy.” Kate nodded. 

“You’re right, she is. She’s utterly brilliant and I adore her for that. Just wish she were around more.” Kate shrugged. John drew her in closer and kissed the top of her head. 

“I know you do. I know.” They arrived at the door of the house, and Kate opened it for John with a flourish. 

“We’ve got a lovely guest room prepared for you and Sherlock,” she announced, leading John down the main hallway. John bit his tongue. 

“Kate, we were thinking we might-” but Kate cut him off with a knowing grin.

“Please, John, we’re all adults here. We’re not under any impression that the two of you aren’t sleeping together.” She chuckled and opened the door to the guest room, gesturing to the windows. “It gets a lot of light, and you can always draw the curtains if it becomes too much.” John gave the room a cursory once-over and nodded. 

“You are a precious host, Kate, and I appreciate what you’re doing for Sherlock and me.” 

“Doing what for me?” Sherlock had arrived at the door. John turned to him with a smile that was not completely affected. 

“Kate’s prepared a lovely guest room for you and I,” John explained, gesturing to the room behind him. Sherlock adopted the thin smile he used when attempting to display gratitude. John privately thought it came off more as constipation, but really, that was Sherlock’s problem and not his. Kate looked around at both of them, oblivious to the tension between them. 

“Well, the dinner reception will start at seven, which leaves the two of you-” she glanced at her watch, a beautiful golden thing that was presumably a gift from Irene. “A few minutes to get dressed and then to come down and socialize. In the meantime, I have to make drinks!” And with that, she left the room, ginger hair bouncing merrily behind her. John smiled after her. 

“So she’s a bartender, too,” Sherlock observed. 

“Great deduction, that,” returned John. “She’s not ever worked in a bar, per se. Before she met Irene, she provided mixed drinks for all kinds of politician’s dinners. And now she doesn’t much have to work, being in-” he paused and crinkled his nose slightly- “my family, so she doesn’t. She’s content to be a hostess and volunteer around town.” Sherlock nodded, and offered no reply. 

“There’s only one bed,” he pointed out after a moment. 

“Yes,” agreed John.

“You’ll have to sleep on the floor,” Sherlock commanded, setting his bag down on the bed. John shrugged. It wasn’t like he was expecting anything else at this point. 

“We should change,” he informed Sherlock. “Kate likes her guests looking sharp at family dinners. 

“How sharp?” Sherlock asked throwing open his suitcase and carefully surveying the pristinely folded clothes he brought. John could have sworn he saw a gleam in Sherlock’s eye as he went through his clothing. 

“No jacket,” John clarified. “Just nice pants,shoes, and a button down.”

“Easy enough.” Sherlock extracted a deep purple shirt from his suitcase and a pair of dress pants. He folded them smartly over his arm and moved into the bathroom to changed. John couldn’t help smirking as his boss shut the door behind him. Sherlock Holmes, oh he who feared nothing, was shy about getting undressed in front of another man. Wonders would truly never cease, apparently. 

John selected a white, long-sleeved button-down shirt and a pair of dark brown slacks. These would most likely be up to Kate’s standards. Sherlock emerged from the bathroom after several minutes of preening, and John lost his command of coherent thought briefly. Sherlock could be cold, yes, and even harsh. But god, the man cleaned up well. His generally unruly curls had been tamed somewhat, with his forehead curl arranged artfully on the side of his head, and his purple shirt framed his lean figure very well. John had to hold back a very strong impulse to loose Sherlock’s perfectly styled curls by running a hand through them. 

“Alright then, let’s go down!” John exited the room so as to avoid his mind going on any further rabbit trails that were far more dangerous. Sherlock followed behind. 

John bit the insides of his cheeks once he arrived downstairs. Typical Granny Hudson. Only a few people. What hogwash. This was several of John’s high school classmates, their families, his childhood friends, Granny’s family and friends, and what looked like most of the extended Watson family. Great, yes. More people to whom he could show off his fake marriage. Really smashing, that. He took what was supposed to be a cleansing breath but really only filled him with more dread, and looped an arm through Sherlock’s. The taller man looked down at him, brows furrowed in mild confusion. 

“These people are like hawks,” muttered John. “They’re going to be watching us to make sure you’re good for me, and by proxy whether or not our relationship seems real. So play along.” As seemed to be his pattern the past day, Sherlock pursed his lips, nodded, and went along with it. John wanted desperately to know what was going on inside the razor sharp brain that hid beneath those luxurious curls, but his boss was impenetrable as per usual. 

They milled about the crowd, John introducing himself and Sherlock to others as they surfaced, and rather stupidly introducing Sherlock as his fiancee rather than his husband. _Excellent, Watson, really excellent. As if you didn’t need another lie to dig yourself out of already._ Granny Hudson kept offering them wine, which John and Sherlock accepted, but after one glass had no more. Granny Hudson didn’t seem to have a problem with that, and she drank the wine that she offered them instead. This led to a very tipsy grandmother as the night dragged on. 

Granny’s progressive drunkenness came to a head once most people had seated themselves in the living room, were talking quietly to one another and picking at desserts. She was sitting and chatting animatedly with Kate, who had her arm around Irene on the couch. Granny paused in her chatter and looked up at John and Sherlock, who were making small talk with a young couple across the way from her. 

“Well, I think it’s about time we hear some stories from the lovely couple!” she announced, her eyes shining with wine-infused happiness. John gave a thin-lipped smile and waved his hands.

“Please, Granny, this night-this weekend is supposed to be about you! You’re a brilliant woman who’s made it all the way to 95, shouldn’t we celebrate that?” He spread his hands to indicate the rest of the room. She shook her head.

“I’ve already had 94 birthdays. What I haven’t had is one of my grandsons get married yet! And that’s you and all I want right now is for you to tell us how you proposed to Sherlock!” She looked around and the crowd of people for encouragement. Several murmured their ascent, while those who had consumed a bit more wine offered verbal “yeah”s and “come on, John”s. John looked up at Sherlock, hoping to find some way out. All he got was a half-smile from Sherlock that was verging on impish. 

“Go on, John,” he drawled. “Tell them how you proposed. It was very romantic.” John narrowed his eyes. 

“Wow, alright,” he began, “where to start? We, um, we were celebrating our first anniversary as a couple, and I really wanted to do something special for Sherlock. And ah-” he looked up at his-his _husband,_ dammit, he was going to have to start thinking that- “you know what Sherlock _loves_ telling this story, so er, why don’t you take over from here, _love_?” John was verging on sarcastic in his pronunciation of the term of endearment. Sherlock looked like he was about ready to engage in a round of searing public humiliation, and John wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake in allowing Sherlock to continue. 

“It was obvious John had been just _itching_ to ask me to marry him for quite some time, but he was like a scared, tiny little bird.” Sherlock had a pitying expression on his face, and was clearly milking the crowd for a reaction. They were glued. He continued on with an air of long-suffering. “So I started leaving hints here and there because I knew he wouldn’t have the guts to ask-” and here John cut in. 

“That’s-that’s not _exactly_ how it happened,” he countered. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and let John continue. So Sherlock was going to play to the crowd? Well, two could go at this game. 

“Yeah,” he kept on, “this man is about as subtle as a gun.” That earned him a few chuckles. “Wedding planning magazines everywhere, cards from ring stores on the bed, the works. He’s a real sappy romantic. But I wasn’t worried about him leaving the hints everywhere. What I was worried about was that he might find this little box in our room-” 

“Oh, the beautiful decoupage box that he made himself!” Sherlock interrupted, his eyes filling with fake fondness at the fake memory. “So lovely, so intricately crafted with pictures of us all over it! I opened the box, and out fluttered these hand-cut, heart-shaped confettis, and when they cleared, I saw the most beautiful-” 

“-big fat nothing.” John finished the sentence. 

“No ring?” interjected Granny Hudson, eyes wide. 

“No ring.” John confirmed. “No, underneath all that rubbish was a handwritten note with a date and time, and an address to a hotel. Real Humphrey Bogart type stuff. Naturally, Sherlock, he thought-” 

“I thought he was seeing someone else,” supplied Sherlock. “It was terrible. I was ready to leave him, but I had to have my last ‘I-told-you-so’. So I went to the hotel, and pounded on the door. But to my surprise, it was already unlocked! And as I swung open that door, there he was-” 

“Standing.” 

“Kneeling, on a bed of rosebuds, in a tuxedo, choking back the most delicate sobs.” Sherlock smiled reminiscently. He stared around at the crowd, goading them to want what would happen next. “And then he said to me-” 

“I said, ‘Sherlock, will you marry me?’ and he said ‘Yep!’ and here we are.” John wrapped up the story hastily, not wanting the humiliation to continue any further. They both looked expectantly at the gathered family. A few of the people let out contented sighs. John was sure he heard a few whispered “so romantic”s. The awkward silence persisted for several minutes. 

“Well don’t just stand there!” One of John’s childhood friends piped up. “Kiss him!” Granny Hudson looked delighted at the idea. 

“Yes, give him a kiss!” She chimed in. Others in the room vocalized their agreement. _Shit_ , John cursed inwardly. He looked up at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows expectantly. Great. Apparently John was supposed to take the lead on this one. He raised a hand to silence the family members and placed that hand on Sherlock’s shoulders to balance, as he needed to stand on his toes to kiss the man. 

He pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips, too quick to allow for any response on the taller man’s part. John turned to his family and friends.

“See? There, I’ve done it. Now can we all-” 

“No, no!” interrupted Granny Hudson. “Give him a real kiss! Come on!” The others in the room voiced their agreement. John’s anxiety heightened. He turned back to Sherlock and put both hands on his shoulders. The smaller man took a moment to look into his taller counterpart’s eyes, searching for some sign to stop. There was none. In fact, Sherlock’s eyes looked a bit anticipatory. So John pulled Sherlock down to his level and pressed their lips together once more. He kept them together longer this time, and was startled when he felt Sherlock’s tongue at the seam of his mouth, asking for entry. John granted it, and the kiss shifted from chaste to something else. And, damn it all, John was _enjoying_ it. Sherlock took the lead in the kiss from there, allowed it to carry on for a few more moments, and then ended it. He topped it all off with leaving their foreheads touching briefly after the kiss had been broken, and tugging John close to his side as the room burst into applause.

John couldn’t really focus. Granny Hudson was coming up to him and kissing him on the cheek, but all that filled his mind was the feel of Sherlock’s plush lips against his. This was going to prove problematic.


	5. Hollowed Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has some alone time after the kiss hollowing out an old canoe. John and Sherlock have an awkward run-in, and make another attempt to try to get to know each other afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos and love for this AU. You all have been really really wonderful whether it's in encouragement or pointing out details that I've done incorrectly so yeah. Thanks. 
> 
> Feel free to come bother me in my inbox at cumberwho-and-johnlock.tumblr.com.

The aftermath of the kiss had John leaving the party as quickly as he could, desperate for some air. Mercifully, no one followed him outside. 

Sitka’s autumn air was crisp and clean; a welcome change to the heavy, alcohol-ridden air that was nearly choking him back inside the house. He stood out on the lawn outside of the house overlooking the ocean. The sight of the mountains was soothing. They rose, tall and resolute, framing the bay and drawing the eye towards the channel that led to the open sea. It occurred to John just how much he loved this view. New York City was a brilliant place to live; there was always something going on and the sheer volume of diversity in all its forms was invigorating and kept him sharp. 

But there was also this. There was also expansive, beautiful Sitka with its icy cold ocean waters and alpine animals and crystal clear skies. There was Sitka, in all its vast, towering glory to remind him that perhaps his problems were a tad smaller than they seemed. And that was a realization that John knew he needed to reach more often. Just proved a bit tricky when someone who was as much of a whirlwind as Sherlock stuck his neck into your life and then _kissed_ him like _that_...it was all too much for his head. 

Something caught John’s eye out of his peripheral vision. He turned his head and saw a massive old log, one that he had been hollowing out years ago with the intention of making a canoe. That it was still here was a little bit unbelievable, actually. He walked over to the log and found his old axe sitting inside it. Now that was just absurd. Someone else had to have been working on the canoe recently. John picked up the axe, feeling its heft in his hand and remembering how much he had loved this old project. He looked around. Everyone was still inside. The sky was still holding on to a whisper of sunset light. God bless Alaska. He stripped out of his jacket and waistcoat, threw them to the side, and began the satisfying work of hollowing out the canoe once more. 

________

Sherlock wasn’t exactly surprised when John darted out of the room and out of sight as quickly as he could after the kiss. But he did feel a tiny bit bereft. When John didn’t reappear after half an hour, Sherlock decided it was probably time for him to make his exit. Granny Hudson saw him leaving and took his arm in an attempt to get him to stay. 

“Come now, Sherlock, you haven’t even tried the Prosecco!” she wheedled, gesturing to what had to have been a solid mahogany table with various wines and champagnes set out for tasting. Sherlock put on what he hoped was an apologetic smile. 

“I’m afraid I had better go have a shower and turn in, Granny. But you’ve been lovely.” Sherlock bent and kissed her on the cheek, which left her all of a flutter and patting his cheek rather clumsily. 

Once he was out of the room where the festivities were being held, Sherlock felt like he could breathe at least a little bit again. He found himself walking down a long, ornate corridor towards the stairs that led up to his and John’s room. The walls were impeccably decorated with carefully staged family portraits of what must have been the Watsons through the ages, interspersed with lifelike oil paintings. Sherlock paused at a family portrait that had John in it. As well as what appeared to be his parents. They shared John’s clear blue eyes. Sherlock traced a finger over the outline of the family. John looked happy with them. Much happier than he had seemed these past several days since Sherlock had forced him into a sham marriage. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheeks. Maybe now would be a good time to have that shower. 

The ensuite in their room was luxurious, and Sherlock took his sweet time enjoying the hot water and the near-perfect pressure. He parted the shower curtain when he was finished and stared around the bathroom. No towels. Shit. They must have been in that closet just outside the ensuite. 

_____

John was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, but was feeling better than he had all night. He had hacked away at the canoe for quite some time, and then decided to go inside and have a shower. John took out his phone and played one of his favorite albums by the Who on full volume as he went inside. 

The combined force of Kate’s hyper-social proclivities, Granny forcing them to tell the engagement story, and Sherlock kissing him like that in front of everyone made the night even more of a burden on John than being around his family usually was. Kate was generally an utter delight, but she got along very well with nearly everyone and was always surprised (and disappointed, it felt like) when others, especially John, didn’t get on well with everyone that she did. John had about given up on trying to even get along with Irene. And Granny was….well….Granny. He could hardly fault the woman. She was 95, for god’s sake, and at that age John had a hard time trying to correct anyone’s behavior. They had earned some tomfoolery. 

But all the same, it was good to have an hour where the biggest thing on his mind was the separate pressure controls and detachable shower head in the ensuite. 

He entered the room and went straight out onto the balcony so as to enjoy the view while he undressed and threw his clothes to the side.  
____

Sherlock really didn’t want to step outside the warmth of the bathroom. He preened a bit in front of the mirror, drying his hair as best he could with a hand towel. But the sheer volume of his curls and how quickly they soaked the hand towel meant that he would have to venture out for a full bath towel. He opened the door gingerly, and was dismayed when that didn’t slow the flow of cold air at all. Someone must have left the door to the balcony open. Right. This was only going to be minimally uncomfortable if he went fast. Sherlock took a deep breath, dashed out of the ensuite-

…and ran smack into a surprisingly firm and very naked John Watson. 

If completely losing his focus for a second at the feel of John’s skin against his wasn’t embarrassing enough, Sherlock promptly lost his balance and his momentum carried him forward and onto the floor on top of John. 

“WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!” he shouted right in John’s face, rolling off of the smaller man and scrambling behind the bed to grab a blanket to cover himself up. 

“WHY ARE YOU WET?!” John returned, getting to his feet as fast as he could and opening the towel cupboard. 

“Oh my god, just get a towel, John, for the love of everything,” Sherlock moaned, attempting to fasten the throw on top of the bed around his waist.

“I don’t understand,” John complained, wrapping the towel he had extracted around his waist. “Why are you wet?! “ He furrowed his eyebrows at the taller man in an expression of exasperation at Sherlock’s antics, to which the big-shot New York City editor averted his eyes and stared resolutely at the floor. An awkward moment passed between them. 

Sherlock summoned his courage and tried to banish his embarrassment as he looked back up at John. This was a challenge as maintaining his focus on John’s face and not on the curve of his spine that disappeared beneath the towel was a tall order. 

“Just-just go,” he said dismissively, waving his hand towards the ensuite. “Wash up. You smell.” John folded his arms huffily and opened the door to the ensuite. 

“Fine,” he returned, slamming the door behind him.  
______

John dropped his towel to the floor once safely ensconced in the ensuite and turned the shower water as hot as it would go. He stepped inside, and felt his sore back muscles begin to relax a bit under the impeccable water pressure. If nothing else, his family’s estate had damn good showers. 

_God_ , Sherlock could be a right idiot sometimes. Swanning out of the ensuite naked and looking for a towel and not paying attention to where he was going, for god’s sake. Going into the ensuite without a towel at all was just not thinking! And then ruining the upturn his evening had taken with a literal naked run-in with his boss...when had this become John’s life? Holiday in Alaska with his boss-turned-husband? Pretending he was desperately in love with a man he wasn’t even entirely sure he liked so that the man in question could stay legally in the States? 

A small, irritating voice of reason in his head suggested that perhaps he didn’t dislike Sherlock as much as he pretended to if he was willing to go through with such a risky charade in the first place. 

No, he was doing it for the promotion. And the publication of his manuscript. This was strictly for business reasons, for the advancement of his career, and for the furthering of his life’s goal to touch the lives of millions of people with the written word. John was doing this for himself. 

It was definitely not for the little thrill he got in his stomach when something surfaced about Sherlock’s personality that didn’t have to do with work, like his enjoyment of beekeeping. 

It was definitely not for the bigger thrill that went more places than just his stomach when he stood arm-in-arm with Sherlock in a sharp suit, close enough to inhale the faint scent of almonds from his shampoo. 

And it was definitely, definitely not for the jolt of electricity that had run down his spine and throughout his entire body when they kissed. 

…...shit. The feel of Sherlock’s mouth on his rose, unbidden, to his mind, and he found himself losing focus on his inner pep-talk. The kiss at dinnertime started to replay in his mind, only now it was taking on a new ending, one where John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock was cupping John’s face in his massive hands and John was finally getting to play out the things he had imagined doing to Sherlock in that suit in front of God and everybody. 

A rap on the door from Sherlock yelling something about needing the restroom snapped John out of his reverie. He looked down. Damn. Irrefutable evidence that he was attracted to Sherlock. Things just kept getting more complicated. He sighed and got himself off as quickly as he could, finished washing, and got another towel. 

“You’ve probably used all the hot water,” Sherlock groused as John opened the door. 

“Probably,” John replied, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes and trading places with him in the ensuite. Sherlock gave him a Look as he passed by, but John still wouldn’t make eye contact. 

The floor was not John’s ideal place to sleep, but it sure as hell beat sleeping in the bed with Sherlock where he could practically cut the tension with a knife. So he set himself up a little bed on the floor, with a pillow for his head and one for under his knees, and a blanket. Sherlock changed into his pretentious dressing-gown and spread it out behind him as he settled into bed. 

The night found them laying awake and not talking, John trying to ignore the dull ache in his back, and Sherlock sprawled luxuriously on the bed with far more pillows than he needed. 

John broke the silence.

“Sherlock?” 

“Yes.” 

John took a deep breath. 

“Don’t-ah-don’t take this the wrong way, but you are a very, _very_ beautiful man.” 

Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath was probably more audible than he wanted it to be. 

Another period of silence passed between them. Some cicadas chirped outside. 

“Was that-was that a tattoo in between your shoulder blades?” John ventured. He was probably pushing his luck. 

“Yes.” Sherlock wasn’t curt, but he wasn’t exactly being open either. Hm. Well, maybe the yes-no game would work then. 

“Did you get it when you were younger?” 

“Yes.” 

“After your parents died?” 

“Yes.” 

Silence. Sherlock spoke up next, surprising John. 

“My favorite band as a teenager was Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock.” 

John couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing. 

“You mean-” he managed in between bouts of hysterics- “It takes two to make a thing go ri-hight?” He sang the last phrase, his voice squeaky and comic. 

“You didn’t know me when I was a teenager, John!” Sherlock’s words were defensive but his tone was one of mild amusement. 

“It takes two to make it outta sight!” John sang the next line, punching his arms to the ceiling in rhythm for good measure. A warm, deep-throated chuckle escaped Sherlock’s lips. His laugh was caramelly and pleasant and gave John that thrill in his stomach he had come to associate just with Sherlock. 

“So what fraught family drama soured things between you and Irene?” Sherlock’s question was abrupt, and the thrill in John’s stomach immediately died. 

“I’m sorry. That question is not something we need to know for the immigration interview.” 

“You were the one who said we needed to know things about each other that couples would know to pass this immigration interview,” protested Sherlock. John exhaled sharply. 

“Fine. My parents died when I was seventeen. Irene is a cousin of mine that took over the estate, and it was presumably supposed to be until I was old enough to handle it myself. But then I went to work in New York instead, abandoned the family, infuriated Irene, and here we are.” 

“But Kate likes you,” observed Sherlock. 

“Kate has more respect for my choices and my ambitions,” continued John. “Case closed.” 

“There has to be more than that,” Sherlock pushed. 

“Well there isn’t.” John asserted. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” 

And with that, any warmth that had passed between them while they were joking evaporated completely. The drop in friendliness seemed to correlate with a drop in temperature in the room, and there was a distinct chill in the air. They both laid in silence, John with his hands folded over his stomach and his eyes screwed shut, and Sherlock curled around a pillow, staring out the window.


	6. Exotic Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get breakfast in bed. Sherlock later receives an important phone call that leads to a trip into town, where he's later shown one of Sitka's greatest prides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for the love for this AU! I really do appreciate all the comments and suggestions and corrections and mostly just all the interaction. Thanks for reading you guys. :) :) 
> 
> People to come and follow on the tumblr machine: 
> 
> Yours truly: cumberwho-and-johnlock.tumblr.com
> 
> My fab beta, who patiently listens to me shout about Johnlock a lot and keeps me sharp. She writes really glorious SasuSaku fanfic: hermadnessmac.tumblr.com

Sherlock slept fitfully. The temperature in the room wasn’t consistent the entire night-it was chilly at first, but then escalated to downright freezing in the wee hours of the morning. He had pulled all the blankets up over himself and was curled tightly into a ball to keep in as much heat as possible, but nothing was working. The brunet sat up at one point and looked down at his blonde-well- _husband_. John was fast asleep, his mouth hanging open slightly and his head lolling to one side. Damn that man, he looked downright peaceful in the freezing Alaskan nighttime. Sherlock flopped back onto the bed and dozed on and off for the rest of the night until he heard an insistent rapping at the door. He sat up again immediately. 

“John,” he hissed. The blonde didn’t stir. The knock at the door came again. Sherlock picked up a small pillow and threw it at John’s head. “ _John!_ he whispered again, louder this time. The blonde jerked awake and glared at Sherlock. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, what?” he cursed. Sherlock pointed at the door to indicate the knocking, and then pointed at the bed, motioning for John to get in. John’s eyes went wide once he realized a member of his family was at the door.

“Breakfast in bed for the happy couple!” sang Kate from the other side.

“And I brought tea!” chirped Granny. 

“Just a minute,” called John, scrambling into bed behind Sherlock. He brought their bodies close together, trying to make it look like they had already been cuddling. Sherlock jumped at the initial contact between them. 

“What _is_ that?!” he yelped, jerking away from John, who rolled his eyes. 

“For god’s sake, Sherlock, it’s morning,” the shorter man exhaled, exasperated. He pulled Sherlock up against him just as Kate and Granny entered the room. Kate’s eyes, which were usually soft and kind, softened even more at the sight of Sherlock and John in bed. She didn’t seem to notice the entirely unnatural placement of John’s arm that was stretched across Sherlock’s torso and landed awkwardly on the bedspread next to it, and not on Sherlock’s hand just an inch away. 

“I hope we weren’t disturbing anything,” she gushed, setting down the breakfast tray on the bedside table, quickly followed by Granny with the tea. 

“You weren’t,” John assured her, a little shortly. 

“Oh good,” replied Kate, smiling luminously at both of them. When she didn’t say anything for several moments, Granny piped up. 

“Kate? Don’t you have something you want to ask the boys?” The small woman nudged Kate in the ribs. Kate jumped a little bit, and something that looked like nervousness flashed across her eyes. John gave a half-grin. Kate was never good at asking for favors, she liked to do things herself. 

“It’s alright, Kate, go on,” he said, hoping he sounded encouraging. 

“Well, I know you boys said you were going to have a small city hall ceremony when you got back home, but, ah,” Kate paused, as if trying to psych herself up for what she was going to say next. Granny Hudson appeared to be unable to contain herself. 

“We were hoping you would get married up here!” she burst out, spreading her hands as if it was the best idea anyone could have ever suggested. John chanced a glance over at Sherlock and wasn’t really surprised when he found the taller man’s eyes to be the size of dinner plates. He had to consciously shut his own mouth as well from its agape position as he had not been expecting this. No one spoke for a few moments, and the discomfort in the room became thick and palpable. 

“I-” Sherlock began, and cleared his throat. “I think that’s a great idea.” John hastily agreed with a few muttered “yeahs” and “sure, sures” in an attempt to get Granny and Kate to leave. Kate was overjoyed. 

“You don’t have to worry about a thing. We’ll take care of everything, even tuxedos!” She swooped in on both of them and kissed each of them on both cheeks, clearly holding back tears of happiness. John smiled as genuinely as he could, and waved Kate and Granny off as they left the room. He sat up and buried his face in his hands as soon as they left. 

“This is so bad,” he managed after a few minutes. Sherlock was sitting next to him, watching him intently but clearly unsure of what to do to comfort the shorter man. 

“This is so, so bad,” John repeated, looking up. “They’re going to hold a big service here and shower us with gifts and Kate was so happy and once she finds out she’s going to _hate_ me, and Granny?” He gave a barking, derisive laugh. “Granny will have a heart attack, and she will _die_. Her little heart will not be able to take it and she will die. Because of us!” John leaned forward and buried his face in his hands once more. After several minutes, he felt a pair of large, strong hands descend on his shoulders and start massaging them gently, uncertainly. John froze. He wouldn’t have pegged Sherlock as the type to initiate comforting physical contact like this, especially without an audience. But he allowed it to continue. Sherlock’s touch eventually loosened the knots in John’s shoulders, and the blonde slowly began to feel as though he was calming down. 

“They won’t find out, John. We’ll get through this together.” Sherlock murmured, so softly John wasn’t entirely sure that he was meant to hear it. The blonde straightened his back and looked up at Sherlock. The brunette met his eyes, and there was such a stunning amount of raw compassion in them that John had to look away almost immediately. Sherlock continued his gentle massage until John was sitting fully upright and the panic had left his eyes. Then he seemed to realize the intimacy of what he was doing, and slid his hands off of John’s shoulders and back into his lap. John would have said something to break up the moment, but right as he was about to, Sherlock’s mobile phone went off. 

“Oh god,” he moaned, “that ringtone is so irritating. Would it kill you to change it?” John snatched a muffin from the breakfast tray and motioned for Sherlock to get off the bed. “Take it outside,” he ordered Sherlock, pulling the covers up over his lap. Sherlock looked at the caller ID and immediately answered it and headed outside. 

“Frank?” he asked. “Frank? Frank, darling, you’re breaking up! I can’t hear you, hang on, let me get outside,” and the mad editor was off and running, talking a million miles an hour to his current star author. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was positively incurable. 

Once the star editor had left the room, John was able to breathe for a moment. Maybe things weren’t as bad as he was making them out to be. He just had to get through this week. Keep up the facade. Get through another fake wedding service, then get back to work and things would go back to normal. After the immigration interview, anyway. But he and Sherlock would surely pass that. He spent more time with Sherlock than he had with any other previous boyfriends or girlfriends, so his knowledge of that man bordered on absurd. 

He bit into the muffin. Soft, buttery, and entirely Kate. He had no idea how his family had gotten lucky enough to have that woman in their lives. She was a godsend to Irene, to say the least. Irene wasn’t a frigid woman, but she was a difficult nut to crack and few were up to the challenge. Kate was one of very few people who had managed to get past Irene’s tough exterior and to touch her in a way that really seemed to make her happy. And for that, John was more grateful than he would ever be able to say. Irene would always be disappointed (and a bit angry) with him for not taking up what she viewed his familial duty in managing the Watson estate. But she would also never understand the immense psychological burden that came with being a Watson and the intense scrutiny that came over everything you did because every store in town bore your family’s name. 

In New York, he was a nobody. And that was really quite wonderful. He had started at the bottom of Baker Street Publishing, going in and out of various assistantships until he had finally ended up at Sherlock’s door. That was where he felt the real thrill of being in publishing-making the dreams of writers come true and having the power to put profound literature on the market. The promotion he would gain when they got back to the city would be the cherry on top of his current achievements. No one was judging him based on his family name. Hell, no one even knew the weight attached to his family name save Sherlock. That was something John wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

He just had to get through the rest of this week. 

John finished off his muffin and slid on a pair of slippers. He pulled a fluffy robe over his shoulders as it was still fairly chilly, and padded out to the kitchen. Kate and Granny were watching Sherlock outside, coffees in hand, with a mild degree of amusement. 

“He seems to be talking to a bird,” Granny remarked. Kate nodded.

“Yeah, we saw an eagle swoop down earlier, and now Sherlock’s running around with his arms in the air and yelling something. Don’t really know what he’s saying, but it’s funny to watch.” Kate gestured to the front lawn, where Sherlock did indeed appear to be running back and forth, talking to something in the sky. John watched him with mild interest, and jumped when the taller man actually stamped his foot on the ground in frustration. Kate stifled a chuckle. 

“You might want to go check on him,” she suggested. John obliged, and met Sherlock on the lawn. 

“Trying to get that eagle to go on Oprah?” he asked as he approached the brunette. Sherlock made a face at him. 

“That damn bird stole my phone!” fumed Sherlock, gesticulating wildly at the eagle that was still swooping to and fro above the house. 

“Stranger things have happened in Alaska.” 

“Dammit, John, this is not funny! I was right in the middle of a call with Frank, he’s panicking about the Oprah spot and I have to talk him down or he will drop out and then my biggest score of the past few months will be gone!” Sherlock spread his arms wide as if to indicate an empty space. John approached him and took him into a hug. 

“It’s alright,” he said, “we can go into town today and get a new phone.” Sherlock had tensed against him and was holding his breath. 

“Why are you hugging me,” he demanded, trying to break free. John’s grip was too strong. 

“We can’t make it look like we’re fighting. It looks like we’re fighting when you yell at me. So just go with it. There you are, now put your arms around me.” 

Sherlock obliged, and awkwardly patted John’s back. 

“Good,” John encouraged. “Good. Now go inside and get dressed. We’ll leave in half an hour.” He released Sherlock with a pat on the bum, and chuckled at the daggers shooting out of the brunette’s eyes as he reluctantly went indoors. 

Sherlock surfaced fifteen minutes later in a tight-fitting white t-shirt and an even tighter fitting pair of jeans. John had to take a sip out of Kate’s coffee to avoid trailing his eyes from the broad stretch of Sherlock’s shoulders, down his back, and, well, everywhere else. Sherlock busied himself with making a cup of tea and John changed his clothes and pulled the car around to take them into town. 

Sitka was a small town, but it was well-stocked with just about every type of store that a small-town resident could want, so Sherlock had no trouble getting ahold of a new phone. He immediately rushed off ahead of John once he checked his messages and realized that eight of them were from Frank. John kept at least a block behind Sherlock as they strolled (well, John was strolling) through Sitka’s downtown area. Sherlock slowed down eventually and began typing rapidly, sending off what John could only assume was an email to Frank. 

John had nearly caught up to Sherlock when he bumped into a blonde woman coming out of a coffee shop. 

“I’m so terribly sorry,” he began, but paused as soon as he realized who he was talking to. “Mary?” he asked, disbelief coloring his tone. 

“John!” the blonde exclaimed, hugging him around the neck and kissing his cheek. “How _are_ you? I heard that you were in town, and I wondered when I would see you! Oh, this is just wonderful.” She released him from her embrace and gave him a look-over. 

“You look good,” she mused, trailing a finger down his jumper. “You always liked to wear such soft jumpers in the wintertime.” She smiled that coy Mary smile and looked up at him through her eyelashes. John bit his lip and was grateful when Sherlock came over. The taller man looked like he was about to launch into a diatribe about Frank, but John stopped him before he started and pulled him to his side. 

“Mary, this is my fiancee, Sherlock Holmes.” 

Mary looked from John to Sherlock several times, blinking. 

“Right,” she said slowly. “Right, someone in the shop had said something about you bringing home a special someone.” Mary surveyed Sherlock. A small smile flickered across her face and she nodded. She appeared to approve. Sherlock extended a hand, and she shook it. 

“Pleased to meet you, Sherlock,” she said, meeting his eyes and smiling. Sherlock smiled back, but his was much more tentative. “Right then,” Mary went on, “I’ve only got another half hour on my lunch break, so I’d best be off.” She turned her back and went away, looking briefly over her shoulder to smile again at Sherlock and John. Once she was out of earshot, Sherlock turned to John. 

“Ex-girlfriend, then,” he observed, checking his phone for any new emails. None. 

“Ex-fiancee,” muttered John. Sherlock’s eyes widened. “But now is not the time for another bout of ‘let’s explore John Watson’s tragic past’, alright? Let’s just go back to my parent’s house. That too much to ask?” John took Sherlock’s arm without thinking and they walked back up the street towards the docks. 

Before they reached the boat, they were met by Kate and Granny. 

“Hello boys!” Kate called in a sing-song voice that sounded like trouble. 

“Oh no,” John said under his breath. 

“Johnny,” Granny began, “we’re going to have to take your man away from you for a few hours. Wedding preparation things. He’s new to Sitka, so we have to-” and here she wiggled her fingers in front of John’s face- “ _initiate_ him!” She snatched Sherlock’s arm out of John’s grip, and Kate took Sherlock’s other arm. Sherlock, in his usual stoic fashion, wasn’t showing much outward emotion. But John saw something flash across his face that looked vaguely like unadulterated panic. So John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and dropped a brief kiss on his lips before he fully realized what he was doing. 

“It’ll be alright,” he reassured Sherlock after breaking the embrace. “They won’t make you sacrifice a lamb, or anything.” 

“Not until later!” crowed Granny, and the three of them made their way back down towards the center of town, leaving John alone on the sidewalk with the ghost of Sherlock’s lips on his once more.   
_________

Sherlock Holmes was out of his element. Firstly, he was dazed, as seemed to be the pattern whenever he was the recipient of a kiss from John Watson. Secondly, Granny and Kate had dragged him clear across town to what looked like a seedy little dive bar. The outside appearance turned out to be deceiving, however, and the bar was actually quite cozy on the inside. Sherlock was desperately hoping that they had been exaggerating when they said he needed to be initiated and were really just taking him out for drinks. He could deal with drinks. 

Kate and Sherlock sat at a small, round table while Granny went to go get drinks. Kate kept shooting Sherlock furtive looks. She was obviously excited about something. Whatever it was, though, Sherlock couldn’t tell. That was infuriating, he was usually an excellent reader of people. Only when he was in familiar surroundings, it would seem. 

“You’re going to love this,” Kate eventually gushed, unable to hold herself back. Granny arrived with three pint glasses balanced precariously on a tray. She offered one to Sherlock and he took a sip of the dark liquid inside, surprised by its sharp taste. Sherlock was never much of one for beers, but this one was far better than beer he had tried previously. So he went with it. Granny gave Kate her beer and took her own and then raised her glass towards the middle of the table. 

“To the joining of the Holmes and Watson families!” she enthused. Sherlock and Kate mimicked Granny and lifted their glasses to meet all three in the center of the table. Sherlock took another sip of the beer and stared around the room. It wasn’t particularly crowded, but then again it was the middle of the day on a Sunday. He had an inkling he was probably supposed to say something to break the awkward silence, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

“So Sherlock,” began Kate, looking at him with a level of care in her eyes that almost felt maternal despite them being reasonably close in age, “we’ve brought you here to see Sitka’s best exotic dancer!” 

“He’s Sitka’s only exotic dancer, sweetheart,” Granny reminded Kate gently. Kate shrugged her shoulders and grinned as if that hardly mattered. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, attempting to look interested and not apprehensive about whatever undulating, thong-clad man was about to appear onstage. He didn’t have to wait long. 

The first quivering strains of what Sherlock recognized as a song by Frankie Goes to Hollywood came drifting over the loudspeakers. He took a longer draught of his beer when he realized the song was the infamous “Relax.” Whatever was going to happen next would almost certainly require whatever social lubrication his system could handle. 

A swarthy man of some type of South American descent came dancing out on the stage in a terrible shimmy. He was wearing what looked like a cheap tuxedo that cut off at his sides and left his back bare. The dancer paused in the center of the stage and struck a pose, which earned him enthusiastic cheers from everyone in the building, including Granny and Kate. The song picked up, and the dancer began hip-thrusting to the drumbeat, slowly stripping off his strange tuxedo outfit until he was down to just a thong that barely covered his front and didn’t even try to cover his back. Sherlock wasn’t entirely disappointed by the apparent size of the man’s package, but nothing else about him was really Sherlock’s type. He downed the rest of his beer in one gulp and sat back in his chair, trying to move with the music and allow the buzz to settle over him. 

Things were going reasonably well until Granny, on her third pint of beer, motioned for the dancer to come over to their table. 

“He’s getting married, Ramon! This one!” She gestured wildly towards Sherlock, who sunk even deeper into his chair, hoping it would make him disappear. Ramon slowly made his way off the stage, passing by as many audience members as possible to give them a chance to stuff money in the lining of his thong. Mercifully, Kate made a trip to the bar and back to get Sherlock another beer, which he drank as quickly as he could without throwing it all back up. 

Ramon arrived at their table and began swaying in front of Sherlock in a manner that the brunette deduced was meant to be inviting, but was more just unsettling. But Ramon wouldn’t give up. He turned his back to Sherlock and bent over, wiggling his behind in the editor’s face. Sherlock leaned as far back as he could, unsure of what to do. 

“Slap his ass!” came Granny’s voice from the other side of the table. “Go on, slap it!” Sherlock groaned internally, this was not the ass-slapping he had envisaged himself getting up to on this trip. He raised his right hand and made contact with Ramon’s behind in what was really more a tap than a slap. Ramon made an exaggerated expression of surprise, waggled his finger at Sherlock, and made his way back up to the stage. Sherlock exhaled; crisis averted. He went back up to the bar, motioned for another drink, and managed to down the entire thing before Kate found him and took the glass away, giggling merrily. 

“That’s enough for you today, I think,” she said, putting an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Time to get you back home to your man, now that you’ve seen Sitka’s finest!” Sherlock nodded and rubbed his eyes, suddenly very tired. 

They exited the bar, Granny and Kate on either of Sherlock’s arms. He found himself very talkative on the walk back to the docks. Well, _walking_ was a loose term, it was more stumbling along while Granny and Kate did their best to keep him upright. 

“You really don’t drink much at home, do you?” Granny observed, trying to keep from laughing outright at Sherlock’s state. Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. 

“Distracts from the work,” he managed, and continued with his diatribe on a former client who was contesting Sherlock’s knowledge of various types of cigarette ash in relation to the feasibility of a book plot. 

“And so I said to him,” slurred Sherlock, “I told him he clearly doesn’t know ash or else he never would have had the perpetrator leave that kind behind at the scene because it’s _physically impossible!_. And he told me it didn’t matter!” He looked around at Granny and Kate for effect, and they nodded understandingly, privately trading amused looks. “And I told him that I KNOW ASH. I’m the expert here, I KNOW ASH, and DON’T-” here he snapped his fingers from side to side in what was supposed to be resembling a “Z”- “TELL ME I DON’T!” 

“We believe you, Sherlock dear. We believe you,” Granny soothed, helping Sherlock into the boat and giving him a life jacket to use as a pillow. The lanky man promptly dozed off, and slept all the way back to the mansion.


	7. Sailing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Irene attempt a heart-to-heart and it goes poorly. John and Sherlock then spend a day together enjoying the nature-y activities that Sitka has to offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are the most thoughtful readers. The comments have been warming my heart and I just love hearing from you all, even when it's pointing out mistakes/continuity errors, etc. Keeps me sharp. Anyways thanks for the love of this story. It makes my heart smile. 
> 
> Feel free to come and bother me at cumberwho-and-johnlock.tumblr.com. Or to just cry over these idiots, which I do a lot. It's fine. 
> 
> Do let me know what you think of the new developments!

John found himself alone at the estate that evening with Irene. God, of all the things that could have happened this weekend, this was the one he wanted the least. He could deal with her in groups, because that way he could just talk to someone else or avert her gaze. Not so when they were alone. 

He set about preparing himself a late lunch while Irene lingered at the dining room table. She was paging through some sort of binder that looked important. Most likely something having to do with her work in the state senate. Good. That ought to keep her out of his hair. He set a pot of water to boiling and began rooting around in the cupboard for some pasta. 

“Top shelf, on the right,” supplied Irene without looking up. John suppressed a frustrated huff at her intrusion, but looked where she was saying. He lifted the noodles from their place on the right side of the top shelf and muttered a begrudging “Thanks.” 

The pot hadn’t started to boil yet, so John looked for something to busy himself. Cutting up fruit, making a salad, anything. He eventually found a banana and began cutting it into the most precise, even slices possible. Irene’s eyes were trained on him, their expression thoughtful and a bit cold. She began drumming her fingernails on the table. 

“Why are you avoiding me, John?” she asked abruptly. John pursed his lips in a thin line. 

“Look, Irene, you’ve never supported me before in anything, and I don’t expect you to start now. So, if you could just tolerate me until I’m married and out of your hair, I’ll be gone before you know it.” The words were biting. John knew this. Irene raised her eyebrows. 

“I _am_ supportive of you, John, but it’s my job as your cousin and last living parental figure to encourage you in the direction that I find to be the best for your long-term well-being.” Her tone was affected and the words were clearly prepared. John continued cutting the bananas, his anger starting to mount. Irene continued to watch him, and the irritation reached a tipping point. John set down the knife with a bit of a clatter and looked up at Irene. 

“What, precisely, is so awful about me pursuing something that I love, hm?” His eyes had gone steely now and he was matching her steady gaze. “What is the matter with me doing something that I am good at and contributes positively to the world and that I get great personal satisfaction out of? Where is the harm in that?” He folded his arms. “And besides, as my last living-” and here he unfolded his arms and bent his fingers forward in air quotes-   
“ _parental_ figure, aren’t you supposed to want precisely this for me?” 

The room was silent for several minutes. John was the first to break eye contact. He finished chopping the banana and put the knife in the dishwasher. 

“You really only think of yourself, don’t you Johnny.” Irene’s voice had gone soft, almost dangerously so. 

“I’m the only legitimate member of this family left. Who else am I supposed to think of? I’ve got no obligations left here,” snapped John. Irene made a small scoffing noise in the back of her throat. 

“Which is precisely the reason why you should care about the Watson estate and retail chains. Your father and mother didn’t spend their lives building this empire so that you could throw it all away and go swanning off to New York City to pursue a pipe dream.” Irene spat the last two words at him as if they were poisonous. The corners of John’s mouth twitched upwards at what he heard as self-righteous vitriol in Irene’s voice. 

“My father wanted nothing to do with me.” John retorted. The weight of those words seemed to hit him suddenly, and his rough demeanor sank a touch. His gaze flicked downwards. “My father,” he repeated, “wanted _nothing_ to do with me.” He looked back up at Irene and folded his arms, a humorless smile starting to spread across his face. Her face was impassive. 

“If you think I’m doing some honor to his memory by abandoning my dreams and returning to this prison of an estate, then you knew him the least out of all of us.” He scooped up the plate of bananas and stalked out of the kitchen, not bothering to take the pot of water off the stove. lt slowly rose to a boil. Irene was motionless for a moment, as if taking in what had just happened. She then rose silently and took the boiling water off the stove after turning it off.   
______

John was met a few hours later by Granny and Kate giggling uncontrollably and propping up Sherlock at the door. The tall brunette was completely out of sorts. John sighed, but couldn’t help smiling a little bit. 

“Has he been drinking?” asked John, taking one of Sherlock’s arms from Granny and supporting the mad editor himself. 

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Sherlock answered for them, the slur in his words subtle, but still there. John patted his chest with his free hand. Sherlock’s head lolled a bit on top of John’s. 

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” he reassured Sherlock, walking him slowly from the front door up to their room. “I think you need a nap,” he suggested after seeing Sherlock’s eyes droop halfway up the stairs. The brunette’s eyes snapped back open at this. 

“I don’t need a nap!” he insisted. “I’m perfectly functional the way I am.” By this point they had reached the bed, and Sherlock collapsed comically on top of it. John pulled his shoes off of his feet and covered him gently with the duvet. Sherlock snuggled underneath it and started to close his eyes in earnest. His blonde counterpart started to leave the room, but before he could get to the door, Sherlock grunted with displeasure. John turned around to find Sherlock extending his hand and beckoning for John to come back. 

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” said John uncertainly, going back to the bed, taking Sherlock’s hand and patting it. “You can go to sleep.” 

“Don’ want to sleep with you….gone...,” mumbled the lanky man. The corners of John’s mouth twitched upward. How sweet. 

“Alright, I’ll just get my computer and I’ll come sit in here until you fall asleep.” He patted Sherlock’s hand again and made to set it down on the table. Sherlock would have none of it. He tugged John towards him so sharply that the smaller man stumbled forwards and into a seated position on the bed. Sherlock wormed his way backwards and patted the empty space in front of him. _Now_ , of all times, the mad editor was making his intentions clear. Even though they were semi-drunken intentions. 

John sighed, and obliged. He positioned himself on his side so he was facing the same direction as Sherlock, and pulled the duvet up over both of them. His breath caught briefly in his throat when he felt his fake-husband’s long arm snake around his middle and pull him close. Once the initial shock of being Sherlock’s little spoon had worn off, John began to rather like this position. Sherlock’s arms, though not particularly muscular, were strong and warm. And there was something soothing about being so close to the man and hearing his steady heartbeat and steady, slow, in-and-out breathing. John eventually found his own eyelids fluttering, and could have sworn he felt Sherlock press a kiss to the back of his neck before he drifted off completely. 

John woke the next morning with his position reversed-he had somehow turned over in his sleep and Sherlock had become the little spoon. The taller man was still asleep, so John carefully removed his arm from around Sherlock’s waist and climbed gingerly out of the bed. He grabbed a jacket from the closet to slip on over his pajamas and tiptoed outside onto the front lawn. 

There was something brewing in the pit of John’s stomach after spending the night with Sherlock like that. It had been the most chaste thing-falling asleep in each other’s arms-and was hardly something out of the ordinary for a supposedly married couple to do. But they weren’t supposed to be like a real married couple. It was only supposed to be real enough to fool the government and John’s family, and then it would progress like a business deal after enough time had passed and John had gotten his promotion. 

Regardless of all that, the intimacy between the two of them had continued to progress. And the worst part, the part that scared John the most, was that it felt natural. It seemed like a perfectly normal thing to slip his arm through Sherlock’s as they walked down the streets of Sitka’s downtown area. It felt like the easiest thing in the world to drop a kiss on the taller man’s forehead before they parted, or even on his lips as the case may have been. 

John stared out at the bay, searching deep inside himself for some sign that this was coming. There had to have been some indication that things were going to go like this, that-god, he had a hard time even _thinking_ the words-that perhaps he had fallen for Sherlock Holmes. Of all the people in the world. John buried his head in his hands and let the gentle morning breeze caress his shoulders. He looked up again after a few moments, and heard footsteps behind him. 

Sherlock was approaching, clad in his long, black coat over his pajamas and carrying two cups of coffee with croissants balanced precariously on top of the mugs. John rose immediately and took one of the mugs from him so it wouldn’t spill. 

“This is kind of you,” he remarked, taking a sip of the coffee and allowing it to warm his hands. 

“You hadn’t eaten breakfast yet,” Sherlock stated, bemused at the suggestion that he would do anything else. “And you’re much more agreeable when you’ve had some caffeine in you. We’re alike that way.” He sat down on the grass, and John imitated him. They sipped their coffee and ate their pastries quietly, occasionally breaking the silence with innocuous comments on the weather or the occasional remark about work. 

Sherlock finished his breakfast first and wrapped his long arms around his gangly legs and stared out at the bay. 

“I would like to go sailing today,” he announced. John raised an eyebrow. 

“You can’t swim,” he informed his boss. 

“Sailing involves no swimming,” Sherlock countered. John drained the last of his coffee. 

“You were incredibly nervous the last time we were on a boat together.” 

“It’ll be different this time. I know what it’s like now.” 

“Fair enough, but I’ll have to make you wear a life jacket if you want to do this. Otherwise you’ll drown if the boat capsizes.” 

“That’s unlikely given your skill in the sport. But I will wear the life jacket anyways.” 

John frowned. “How do you know I used to sail?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Irene told me.” 

John took another bite of his croissant and tried to chew away his knee-jerk reaction at the thought of Irene and Sherlock talking about him. Sherlock seemed to notice his discomfort. 

“She only ever speaks well of you to me, John,” he offered, putting an uncertain hand on John’s outstretched thigh. John finished the croissant and brushed the crumbs off his hands. He didn’t respond, though it was comforting on some level to hear that. Another breeze swept through the grassy area, and John took Sherlock’s hand in his to help pull them both up from their seated position. 

“You’ll want to wear some layers if you want to go sailing,” he informed the brunette. “It’s not terribly cold now, but once you’re out on the water with the sea spraying at you, it gets cold pretty fast.” Sherlock looked perplexed. 

“Layers? Easy enough, I’ve got jeans and jumpers.” 

“No, jeans will make you cold when they’re wet, and you’ll want a base layer to go under the jumper.” John stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You’re a lanky git, but I think I may have some base layers that have always been a bit big on me. Those can go under your jumper, and I’ll loan you a pair of water-resistant trousers if I can find any.” Sherlock nodded, not entirely sure what all of these new articles of clothing would look like, but more happy than he was letting on to wear something of John’s. 

John dressed Sherlock as best he could in a combination of some of his old sailing and skiing gear. Where the base layers were too short in the torso, he compensated by giving Sherlock a long tank top to tuck into his trousers so he wouldn’t be too cold. The brunette cut a bit of a comical figure once he was completely dressed in a tank top, long-sleeve polyester shirt, and a short-sleeve polyester shirt all layered on top of each other, and a pair of sweatpants that just barely stretched to his ankles. John convinced himself that the ill-fitting clothing was okay because the brunette would have worn those damn skinny jeans otherwise. John was outfitted in a similar getup, only his clothing fit him near-perfectly and framed his athletic physique. Ah well. About time he got to look better than Sherlock in at least one occasion. 

John’s gut feeling was right. As soon as Sherlock got on the small sailboat, his entire body immediately tensed up, though he was trying desperately to hide it. John nonchalantly tossed him a cushioned floatation device, and the taller man clung to it desperately with one hand and even more desperately to the mast with the other hand. The blonde steered them out expertly towards the open waters, and into a bay he knew to be relatively calm. Once their position was satisfactory, John allowed the boat to gently drift around the bay. Following this, he sat down next to Sherlock. 

“Feeling alright?” he asked kindly, putting what he hoped was a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The taller man slowly released his iron grip from the mast and nodded tightly. John began absently massaging Sherlock’s shoulder with the one hand, and settling his chin in the other hand. 

Several minutes passed. Sherlock’s breathing seemed to calm, and he eventually spoke up. 

“It’s-erm-it’s quite beautiful out here.” 

“I certainly think so,” John agreed, realizing that his hand had migrated to the expanse of Sherlock’s upper back and sliding said hand awkwardly back into his lap. A brief silence fell between them. John followed the path of a blue-winged teal taking off from the mainland and settling into the water, apparently looking for food. Sherlock broke the silence again. 

“Why did you ever leave? You have a future set in stone here, one you would barely have to work for and never worry about and an entire town where everyone respects you and some-” Sherlock swallowed- “and some would clearly be thrilled to spend the rest of their lives with you.” 

Ordinarily, this type of remark would have sent John into a stony silence. But the atmosphere was different this time. He was out on the sailboat he had loved so dearly in his late teenage years, the sky was blue, the air was crisp, and Sherlock was next to him, sharing in a part of his past that no one else in New York knew about. So he responded. 

“I suppose things changed quite dramatically after my parents died.” Sherlock nodded at this, and it hit John suddenly that his mad boss’s parents were dead as well. _God_ , he could be selfish sometimes. _Get it together, Watson. You’re not the only one who’s had a difficult life._ John ran a hand through his hair and began. 

“I was seventeen when they died. It was sudden and tragic-a car wreck with some drunken bastard. Their will stipulated that I had to be 25 before I could take over the estate in the event of their death, so my cousin Irene took over with the understanding that it would only be for about 8 years.” John took a deep breath and continued. His voice hardened a bit. “So I did what it appears I do best, and I ran. I got into NYU on a substantial scholarship, then got lucky and came to work for Baker Street, and I-” he threw his hands up a bit, as if not sure how to explain himself. “I love it. I love New York City. The job is hard, but I love that too. I love not having the weight of all this-” he gestured around, apparently indicating all of Alaska- “on my shoulders. I guess I just like being a nobody.” 

“You’re hardly a nobody.” The words were so soft coming out of Sherlock’s mouth that John almost asked him to repeat himself. 

John didn’t know what to say. In lieu of words, he covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, this time completely on purpose.   
They sat in silence for several more minutes. John occasionally got up and adjusted the sails so they would head back out towards the middle of the bay rather than hugging the edges. The few lone clouds that had been lurking along the horizon came slowly out over them and began to release a light rain. When that rain began turning into snow, the pair decided it was probably time to go in. 

The late afternoon found them with hot cups of tea near the fireplace in their room, poking fun at how ridiculous the other had looked drenched with the rain and then covered in snow. It seemed like the day was drawing to a perfect close. Right as John was about to get up to take his and Sherlock’s mugs back down to the kitchen, he was met by Irene at the door.   
“John,” she said, her expression unreadable as per usual, “You have a guest.”


	8. Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unpleasant visitor comes to the Sitka estate. 
> 
> Sherlock needs to escape and goes for a jaunt into the woods, where he runs into a surprising scene. 
> 
> John and Sherlock go for a joint tux fitting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with this chapter, guys. I've been terribly sick this past week and have mostly been moping around trying to get better and not writing. But here's a shiny new installment for you with exciting things yet to come!
> 
> As always, do let me know what you think. :) 
> 
> And come bother me at cumberwho-and-johnlock.tumblr.com if you're the tumbling type.

John's heart immediately leapt into his chest. He already knew who the visitor would be, but he heard himself asking Irene who it was anyway. 

"Just-just come with me." She motioned for John to follow her out the door. Sherlock looked up at John from his position on the floor. His eyes could never seem to settle on a color, but today they were mostly green and full of worry on John’s behalf. 

"I'll be right back. You stay and relax," John told Sherlock, waving him off with what he hoped was a reassuring expression. Sherlock nodded uncertainly, and went back to sipping his tea and staring into the fireplace. 

John followed Irene down the stairs, out the door, and into the boathouse near where they docked the sailboat earlier. A gentle snow shower was coating the grounds of the Sitka estate and sprinkling on his head as the walked towards the docks. He had to keep a frustrated noise from escaping his throat. There was no reason to take the meeting all the way out here; Irene could really be dramatic sometimes. She shut the door behind him. John brushed the light dusting of snow off of his arms, and looked up to see the immigration officer James Moriarty standing in front of him. 

"Hello, John," Moriarty's voice was calm. John wasn’t fooled. He had spent too much time around slimy gits like him not to hear the note of danger brewing underneath the calm exterior. The blonde narrowed his eyes at Moriarty’s falsely open and cheery expression. 

"Mister Moriarty," John returned, mimicking the man's false cordiality. Irene stood in between the two of them, folded her arms, and addressed John. 

"I received a phone call from Mr. Moriarty here informing me of something rather shocking," she began. 

"Well, do go on," John encouraged her, his voice cold. "Don't drag it out for my sake." Irene _tut-tutted_ and continued. 

"He seems to be under the impression that you and Sherlock are falsifying your marriage so that Sherlock can maintain residence in the United States and continue to legally work for Baker Street Books." Irene eyed John critically, as if hoping to get some type of indication from a twitch of his eye that she was right. John kept his expression impassive and maintained eye contact with Irene. 

From here, Moriarty took over. He spoke to John with a condescension that the blonde didn't think was possible. But here it was, embodied in the sickly sweet tones of the immigration officer. 

"So your cousin, your _darling_ cousin, flew me up here to give you a _second_ chance to turn yourself in with no consequences." 

Moriarty took three steps to close the gap between himself and John. John was shorter than Moriarty, but he stood his ground and tried to look as intimidating as possible. This was surprisingly difficult under Moriarty's penetrating gaze. 

"I'm going to ask you one. More. Time, John." Moriarty stood uncomfortably close to John. His breath smelled of cigarettes and stale coffee. John's nose wrinkled in disgust and he coughed exaggeratedly. Moriarty seemed not to notice as he continued. "Are you or are you not falsifying a marriage in order to allow Sherlock Holmes to remain legally in the United States?" 

John exhaled sharply and took a step back from Moriarty. 

"Right, I want you to listen very closely to what I'm about to say, because I will only say it once," John articulated, his voice low and his words clipped. Moriarty raised his eyebrows disbelievingly and re-folded his arms. 

"I started working for Sherlock Holmes about a year ago. Six months ago, we started dating. We fell in love. I proposed a little over two weeks ago. We are ready to seal the deal on this relationship, and your slimy assertions that we are doing this for reasons of _legality_ is _disgusting_." He spat the last phrase in Moriarty's face. 

The slightly taller man looked vaguely impressed at John's speech, but not entirely convinced. 

"I guess we'll see you at the wedding then," Moriarty said delicately. 

"Guess we will," John returned, his voice bitter. He pulled his coat across his shoulders jerkily and left the boathouse to go back inside. The snow had picked up by then, and was swirling thickly all the way back up to the house.   
_______  
Sherlock was put off by John’s aloofness when he got back to their room from his clandestine meeting with Irene. The blonde yanked a blanket off of the bed and set up his space on the floor once more. John then went noisily about his night time activities and went to bed without a single word to Sherlock. Sherlock arranged himself on the right side of the bed and curled up around a pillow. John had been such a warm and comforting presence in his bed the other night, and Sherlock couldn’t help hoping the shorter man would change his mind and join him in the big bed. 

No such thing happened. The night passed in uncomfortable silence and with a peculiar feeling akin to emptiness eating at Sherlock’s heart. 

Sherlock woke the next morning and was unable to shake the negative feeling from last night. He felt something harsh and jagged curling in the bottom of his stomach, and was suddenly full of a desire to leave, to run, to get away and go anywhere but here. The brunette pulled his black coat across his broad shoulders and thumped his way down the stairs. Shoes. Where were his shoes-ah. Beside the door. He pulled them on, tied the laces, and burst outside. A narrow, dirt trail lay to his right. This one looked good. 

Sherlock broke into a run along the path, somewhat soothed by the gentle breeze in his hair and the _wssh wssh_ of his coattails flapping behind him. The gentle hum of activity from the Sitka estate faded gradually behind him as more trees rose up around him. His breath started to come in shorter bursts, and he disciplined himself to regulate it as best he could in time with the rhythm of his footsteps. 

He continued to run and run until he couldn’t run any longer, at which point he collapsed against a tree, breathing heavily. Sherlock fished his phone out of his coat pocket. It appeared he had only been running for about ten minutes. 

The bark of the Sitka spruce against which Sherlock pressed his back was a bit ragged and uncomfortable to lean against. Once he had caught his breath, he stood up and continued along the path, slowing his pace significantly. A few birds with blue-streaked wings twittered by him, and Sherlock enjoyed their passing despite himself. They were a bit sweet, birds. Completely anal-retentive and high-strung from various papers he had read, but sweet all the same. Nature was not something he was overly fond of, but it could be enjoyable once in awhile. 

Another noise came drifting through the woods towards Sherlock. This one sounded like it was coming from a woman, though it definitely wasn’t speech. There was also a lingering drumbeat thudding behind the chants. 

“Ee-ee-ee-ah! Ee-ee-ah! Ee-ee-ee-ah! Ee-ee-ah!” The chants were rhythmic and grew louder the further Sherlock walked along the dirt path. He came to a clearing in the woods, and was momentarily rendered speechless at the sight of Granny Hudson dancing around a massive bonfire. 

The old woman was wearing a haphazardly constructed headdress consisting of a black headband and red feathers, and what looked like a red-and-white cape. Though perhaps “cape” wasn’t exactly the right word. The material looked heavy, and extended over her shoulders a bit and to her chest. She danced in step with her chants, stomping heavily on the “ahs” and stepping lightly on the “ees”. After a few moments of watching her, Sherlock decided he should probably leave her to this...private moment. Before he could turn and go back up the trail, however, Granny had seen him. 

“Come to me, Sherlock Holmes of New York!” she crowed, spreading her arms wide and making direct eye contact with Sherlock, who froze. “It is I!” she continued, “Granny Hudson!” She took a few more prancing steps around the fire and then veered away from it, edging closer to Sherlock. 

“I see you are a curious one,” she observed, stepping closer to the tall brunette. Sherlock still found himself unable to move.

“No, I’m not that cur-” but Granny Hudson had grabbed his wrist before he could say anything else and was dragging him towards the bonfire. The thought crossed Sherlock’s mind that she was surprisingly strong for such a small, old woman. Granny tugged at his sleeves and removed his coat from his shoulders. She tossed it aside with a flourish, and Sherlock flinched as the jacket hit the ground and inevitably, several thousand little burrs stuck to it that would take ages to get out. 

“Come and see how I give thanks to Mother Earth!” Granny cried, resuming her rhythmic stepping and twirling around the fire. Sherlock stood next to the bonfire, rooted to the spot. Granny came and stood next to him, adjusting his position slightly so they were face to face. 

“Follow, and learn,” she instructed. She spread her arms wide and motioned for Sherlock to do the same. He obliged. She then brought her arms back into her body and flung them outwards again, repeating the motion several times and starting her chant again. She moved more slowly and deliberately this time, making sure that Sherlock was following. He obliged, his eyes wide and a tiny bit frightened of what Granny might do if he didn’t follow. 

“Ee-ee-ee-ah! Ee-ee-ah!” Granny modeled, throwing her arms inwards and outwards. “Now you try!” she encouraged, motioning to Sherlock. The brunette was mimicking her arm motions but looked lost when she told him to start chanting. He continued the in-and-out arm motions while stepping nervously from side to side. 

“But-but-I don’t know any chants!” he faltered, hoping this would get him out of it. But Granny was having none of it. 

“Use your vowels!” she ordered. Sherlock jumped and did the best he could while bobbing up and down to the drumbeat.

“Eeee, ooohhhh, ahhhh ahhhh,”

“Yes! Yes! Sing to nature!” Granny enthused, chanting along with him. Sherlock continued, starting to beat a path around the bonfire. 

“Eee, oohhh, ahhhh, ahhh, to the treees,” he repeated, waving his arms at the massive spruces around him for good measure.   
“To the UNIVERSE!” screeched Granny, who had now broken into complex footwork slightly offset from the fire and next to the boombox where the drumbeat was emanating from. 

“To the universe!” Sherlock mimicked, “to the windoowww” he muttered, remembering an old song, “to the wall,” he continued in a low voice. 

“LOUDER!” Granny encouraged, still wrapped up in her own dance. 

“To the windoooww!” Sherlock began again, hearing himself shout the lyrics at the top of his voice. “To the wall! To the wall! Till the sweat drop down my balls!” Now he was hearing the song at top volume in his head and had momentarily forgotten that Granny was there.

“Till all you bitches crawl!” Sherlock abandoned the in-and-out arm motion and underwent a complicated sort of wiggle dance where his hips were the primary source of motion and his arms were just moving along with the motion of his lower body at his sides. His guilty pleasure songs had a way of wrapping him up and causing brief oblivion to reality. 

“Till all skeet skeet mothafuckaaaas till all skeet skeet goddamn!” The song continued to play on in his mind and he danced along with it until it arrived at the next set of lyrics he remembered-

“Now lemme see you get low-you scared, you scared?” He found himself gesturing to Granny to come and dance with him and get as low as they both could, which wasn’t much for Granny considering her ankles. In a burst of confidence and showmanship that was ordinarily so un-Sherlock, the mad editor continued in his crazed dance to the club ballad in the fresh Sitka air. 

“Now stop-ah! And wiggle it!” At this point he was jumping backwards with his butt sticking out behind him and wiggling it like an excited puppy whenever he said the word “wiggle”. 

“Stop-ah! And wiggle-” the second wiggle ran directly into one John Watson, who had just made his way into the clearing. The music in Sherlock’s head immediately ceased, and he straightened up and turned around. John looked up at him, eyes wide and silent for a split second.

And then the shorter man burst into paroxysms of mirth, clutching his stomach and laughing hysterically. Sherlock felt his cheeks go warm and he folded his arms, attempting to regain his usual stoic demeanor. John was making no such attempt, and his laughter was ringing a bit through the trees. Sherlock looked over to Granny for some kind of support, but she was suddenly very absorbed in studying a tree leaf. Once John had regained a semblance of composure, Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and addressed the shorter man.

“Are you quite finished?”   
John wiped a tear from his eye. He spread his legs to about shoulder width apart, bent at the waist, jumped backwards, and wiggled his own rear end in what was clearly an imitation of the brunette. Sherlock went very red again. John dissolved into another brief laughing spell, and then got ahold of himself more completely. 

“Yes,” he managed, taking steadying breaths, “I’m done now.” Sherlock made a bit of a pouting face, but couldn’t do it with his usual force as he was genuinely embarrassed. 

“Why did you come out here, anyways?” he demanded, stooping to sweep his coat off the ground and to put it across his shoulders. 

“We’ve got a joint tuxedo fitting in town. Came to pick you up so we can make the appointment,” answered John promptly. 

“Ah,” Sherlock responded. He turned to Granny Hudson, who had abandoned the leaf. “Can I-can I go into town then? Can I leave?” She spread her hands wide and gave him a brilliant smile. 

“Whatever you do is what shall be!” she proclaimed. Sherlock looked confused again. 

“But-it’s alright if I go with John?” 

Granny laughed and motioned for the pair to be on their way. John took Sherlock’s arm and they made their way down the dirt path together.   
________

John had to admit, Sherlock looked _good_ in a tuxedo. He had seen his boss-husband in a number of different formal getups, and there had not been one yet where the mad editor did not look utterly dashing. The wedding tuxedo that Kate had purchased for him was no different. 

The brunette eyed himself critically in the full-length mirror that was situated next to the changing room in the tailor’s shop. 

“The sleeves feel just a tad long,” he pronounced, brandishing them at John. “What do you think?” John rose from his position on the couch, clad in his own monkey suit that matched Sherlock’s. 

“Put your hands at your sides,” he instructed the taller man. Sherlock obliged. John observed Sherlock’s hands at his sides. The sleeves did reach a bit too far past his wrists. John reached for Sherlock’s right hand and took it into his own. He did not notice the taller man jump a tiny amount at the contact. The blonde rolled the sleeve up a small amount, and then replaced the hand at Sherlock’s side. Now the sleeve was hanging in the right place. John repeated this action with the other sleeve and then stood next to Sherlock in the mirror. Much better.

The cut of their suits was perfect save the sleeves on Sherlock’s. They were both adorned with matching pale gold ties as well. John found himself getting a bit lost in the tableau the mirror presented. It occurred to John that they fit quite well together like this. It looked natural, standing next to Sherlock Holmes in a wedding suit like this. 

A moment passed, and he felt Sherlock take his hand into his own. 

“Just a few more days, then,” the brunette said softly, giving John’s hand a squeeze. John returned the gesture. 

“Ah, weddings are always stressful, aren’t they?” piped up the tailor, who had just come back into the dressing area from the entryway. John figured she must have mistaken Sherlock’s remark for a desire to get the wedding over with, and not for what it really was. 

“They certainly are,” John answered. The tailor looked critically at Sherlock’s sleeves and nodded once. 

“You’ve made a good move there, son, those sleeves do need to be let up a little bit. Go on then, change back into your normal clothes and I’ll get that sorted for you.” Sherlock nodded and went back into the changing room. He emerged a few minutes later with the tux folded neatly over his arm, and motioned for John to take his turn. John ducked behind the curtains that cordoned off the dressing room from the rest of the shop and took his time undressing. 

Reality was starting to set in. The tailor would take maybe an hour to fix up Sherlock’s suit. Their joint stag party was tonight, and Kate was insisting they hold it at home in the main entertaining room. That in and of itself was going to be a bear to handle. John had no idea who Kate had invited, so he was just going with it and hoping desperately that there would be enough booze to make the night go by faster.

And then they were getting married in the morning. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Sure, legally they were already married. But tomorrow was a proper ceremony with friends and family witnessing the whole damn thing. That felt more weighty to John than their little ceremony in City Hall would ever feel. 

John rubbed his hands over his eyes. 

Holy _shit_ , he was getting married in the morning.


	9. Stag Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate throws John and Sherlock a joint stag night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! It was an absolute bear to write and it was interrupted by various events, some excellent (like getting to see my besties in London, aka hermadnessmac (beta extraordinaire, partner in crime & science) and physicscat (physicist par excellence, sass mistress, straightshooter) and some not so excellent (finding out my grandpa had to go to the ER for a blood clot and worrying about him and hating that I was 4500 miles away while that happened). 
> 
> But it's here now! And this story will be coming to a close in the next three chapters I believe, so I've gone ahead and put the number of chapters in the work info. 
> 
> As always, come visit me at cumberwho-and-johnlock.tumblr.com, comment with what you thought of the new chapter or if you notice any detail/continuity errors as several of you have (and you've pointed them out very kindly, I appreciate that) , etc. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, guys. You rock.

Kate had really gone all out in decorating the main floor of the house for the stag party. John walked in the doors with Sherlock trailing behind him only to be greeted by a massive banner reading “CONGRATULATIONS JOHN AND SHERLOCK!” hanging in the foyer. Kate was standing on a chair, desperately trying to tack up the left side of it. She was too short. Sherlock noticed this and offered to put in the final tack. 

“You know, Kate, it strikes me that this isn’t much of a stag party if it’s for the two of us,” John remarked. Kate watched Sherlock finish securing the poster and shrugged her shoulders. 

“Who cares?” she returned, smiling at John. “It’s more about everyone hanging out and getting drunk and dancing around like a pack of idiots than it is about whether or not both of you are here.” John grinned. She had a point. 

“Well, do you need help setting anything up? Should we make a grocery run or anything?” John offered. Kate waved her hands. 

“Nah, I’ve got most of it done. Go around and admire my handiwork, then go upstairs and make yourselves pretty before it’s time for your grand entrance.” And with that she turned and rushed back towards the kitchen as a timer had begun going off and was clearly holding something important. Sherlock jumped down from the chair he had been standing on to tack up the poster and presented his arm to John. John looked at it for a moment. Why this was becoming a regular physical interaction was beyond him, and caused more than a little internal confusion as to the nature of his relationship with Sherlock beyond their sham marriage. But he couldn’t deny that it was pleasant being arm in arm with Sherlock. 

“Shall we?” the brunette gestured towards the main living room, whose decorations they had yet to see. John slipped his arm through the crook of Sherlock’s elbow and they walked to the living room together. 

The entire place had been cleaned to a T. The living room was always fairly tidy, but it looked like Kate had brought in a detailer to make the couches look extra spotless and the tables extra shiny. A carpet had been removed from one end of the room and the wood beneath it also appeared to have been polished. 

“A dance floor,” Sherlock observed. 

“You’ll be right at home then,” John replied, and received an elbow to the ribs as a result. He chuckled. 

Kate had artfully arranged small vases of flowers all around the room. Red roses were in the center of the room with little green sprigs in between them. On little side tables stood yellow and orange roses in the same vase, and on tables around the edges of the room were green and violet roses….damn. John stared around at the rose color scheme and shook his head. 

“I wonder how long Kate has been waiting to take advantage of a rainbow color scheme,” he wondered aloud, gesturing at all the roses to Sherlock. The taller man shrugged.   
“Bit cheesy, but she made it look quite beautiful,” he said fairly. “You’re not getting cold feet now, are you?” Sherlock’s tone was playful, but John had a feeling that the question was serious. 

“No. I’m going to see this through to the end,” John made eye contact with Sherlock so the taller man would know he was serious. Sherlock patted the hand that was holding on to his arm in response. 

In addition to the roses, there were little folded cards on the tables. Some of the tables were smaller and situated around chairs and couches, and others were much taller and the occupants of the tables were meant to be standing. John slipped his arm out of Sherlock’s and went to see what was on the cards. 

It appeared Kate had hand-written every one of them in her impeccable script. Each card read “Write your well-wishes for the grooms here!” on the front and then opened to a blank inside. Presumably where guests would write the requested well-wishes. John felt a rush of affection for his cousin. She was always determined that special occasions ought to be beautiful and memorable, and this one was certainly going to be no exception. 

“Well, erm-” Sherlock tried to get John’s attention. “Shall we-shall we go upstairs and change?” John nodded, still looking at the cards. 

“I’ll be up in a mo’”, he said. “You go ahead.” Sherlock nodded, a bit uncomfortable at John’s fixation on the cards for no apparent reason, and left the room. 

John really had no idea what to make of all the thoughts that were dancing through his head at the moment. None of them really made much sense, and all of them were tinged with worry at Kate’s reaction if she were to find out the whole thing had been a scam. The lies were starting to pile up-the biggest one being that the marriage was a fraud, of course, but the next biggest one was that he and Sherlock were already married. 

John didn’t know which of those Kate would take the hardest if the truth came out. She treasured authenticity in everything and loved being there for commemorative occasions. It was certainly not unheard of for a couple to have a symbolic ceremony after already being legally joined, but Kate would more than likely be upset that she wasn’t there, nor was she even told about, the legal ceremony. For what felt like the millionth time that trip, John buried his face in his hands. 

She wouldn’t find out. He and Sherlock were being careful. She wouldn’t find out, and she’d be able to feel like she was being included in John’s life and seeing things as they unfolded. That was what she needed. John took a steadying breath and climbed the stairs back up to his and Sherlock’s room. 

The mad editor was standing in the middle of the room, shirtless, surrounded by at least six different tops that he had meticulously laid out in a circle, presumably so he could assess their individual merits one-by-one. John lifted his eyes to the ceiling briefly to avoid focusing too obviously on Sherlock’s partly exposed body. 

“Having trouble dressing, are we?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. 

Sherlock made a frustrated noise. “None of these seem right. It’s either too fancy or too casual or too flamboyant.” John’s eyes flicked back downwards to take in the frustrated, almost childlike expression on Sherlock’s face. The blonde eyed Sherlock’s shirts critically. After a moment of surveying the options, he marched over to Sherlock’s side of the closet and pulled out the plum-colored button-down that the brunette had worn their first night in Sitka. 

“This one,” he said decisively, handing it over. Sherlock took it from him, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Alright. If you’re sure.” 

John’s eyes trailed up Sherlock’s exposed torso and lingered a bit on the tuft of chest hair that sat on his breastbone. He shoved his hands in his pockets to combat the sudden impulse to run his fingers through the fine little curls. John gestured at the shirt again. 

“Trust me. It far outstrips the others.” 

Sherlock eyed the shirt suspiciously, as if it was suddenly going to betray him and turn into a clown suit. Once he appeared convinced that it was the best option, he put it on. Meanwhile, John rifled through the clothes he had brought and pulled out a pale blue button-down and a cardigan to wear over it. 

Their final ensembles for the evening complemented each other quite nicely. John had accepted long ago that Sherlock would always look more posh than him, so at business meetings and book fairs he would settle for looking like the put-together, affable professor. The cardigan and blue button down accomplished that nicely, and gave the appearance that he at least somewhat belonged with Sherlock’s impeccably fitted black slacks and purple shirt. God, that purple shirt. 

Kate knocked at the door. 

“Boys! Guests have started to arrive! I’ll need the pair of you to make a nice entrance, come when you’re ready, and just walk down the stairs together, alright?” 

“Yes, good, thanks Kate,” John called back, grateful for the interruption before he could fixate anymore on exactly how well Sherlock’s clothing fit him. He looked up at Sherlock. “You ready?” The taller man nodded and proffered his arm. John hesitated a bit taking it this time as touching Sherlock at all while he was dressed so well would do nothing for his concentration. But they had to keep up appearances. Yeah. Appearances. 

They exited the room. The staircase leading down to the living room was a tiny bit absurd in its grandiosity. But it did make for an appropriately dramatic entrance as the big-shot New York editor and his loyal assistant-well, husband- made their way down into the waiting group of people. The guests burst into applause as Sherlock and John walked down the stairs. John smiled thinly, willing himself to just make it to the bottom of the stairs. As soon as he did, he was greeted by a roly-poly middle aged man shoving a beer in his hand. Which John gratefully accepted and immediately took a large swill of. 

“Mike Samford, you alright?” John wiped his chin free of the few droplets of beer that had spilled there. He could feel Sherlock’s concerned gaze on him and turned to pat the taller man on the arm. “It’s alright, Sherlock, Mike’s a friend. Go grab yourself a beer and I’ll come find you in a bit, yeah?” 

Sherlock accepted the arm-pat and made his way over to the open bar which Kate was tending. 

“You throw an impressive party,” Sherlock complimented Kate as he walked up to the bar. 

“Why, thank you kindly good sir! Can I interest you in any cocktails? Or, if you’re ready to kick the night off, you and I could do some shots together!” Kate gestured around at the different options. Sherlock remembered the embarrassment of his night at the bar where Ramone was dancing, and blanched a bit. 

“I think-I think I’d just like a glass of white wine, if that’s alright,” Sherlock requested. Kate obliged and poured him a glass. As she was giving it to him she took his free hand into her own. 

“Do enjoy yourself, Sherlock,” she encouraged, “I know it can be a bit overwhelming, meeting everyone like this, but they will love you.” Sherlock grimaced and took a sip of the wine. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he mumbled into the glass. Kate frowned.

“I am sure,” she contended. “You are a delightful person. Sure, you’ve got your kinks and your rough edges, but sweetheart,” She took his chin in her hand so she could make eye contact. “Who among us does not?” The gesture felt quite maternal, despite Kate only being a few years older than Sherlock. She searched his eyes for some form of agreement. 

“Thank you, Kate. You are very kind.” Sherlock patted the hand of hers that was still sitting on the bar counter. Kate smiled and waved him off to go and socialize. 

“I’m kind, and I’m right,” she called to his retreating back. Sherlock smiled a little and quickly found Granny Hudson to talk to on the main couch in the room.   
___________  
John knew that finishing his first beer in less than ten minutes was probably too fast, but he didn’t really care. His tolerance for alcohol was certainly better than Sherlock’s. Brief flashbacks of the tipsy editor coming home from Sitka’s only strip club crossed his mind, and he laughed a little to himself. 

“Johnny!” A mid-height man with flaming red hair was barreling towards him. He enveloped John in a huge bear hug that would have spilled John’s drink had he not already finished it. 

“Mmph,” was all John could manage in the grip of Jacobi Stiles, a previous teammate on John’s high school rugby team. Jacobi released him and regarded him fondly. He slung an arm over John’s shoulder and steered him directly towards the bar where he motioned for Kate to bring them another pair of pints. John accepted the second drink gratefully and took a deep draught of it. Damn, Kate had bought good beer for this shindig. 

“John.” Jacobi said again. “It is so good to see you! And to see you so happy!” The ginger’s freckled face was kind and looked genuinely thrilled on John’s behalf. “Sherlock looks like a real catch,” Jacobi went on. “I don’t really swing that way myself, but if anyone could convince me, it would be him.” John laughed. 

“He really is something else, isn’t he?” John drank deeply from the beer before he started to go on too much about Sherlock’s physical appearance. Jacobi seemed to pick up that the topic was making him uncomfortable, and immediately immersed him in a conversation about their favorite rugby teams that involved Jacobi insisting on them sharing a third beer together quickly after the second one in celebration of their hometown team winning the latest championship. 

Jacobi’s company was changed with another former rugby teammate, Stiles Hooper, after about half an hour of chatting with Jacobi. John’s world was starting to tip just a bit from the rapid consumption of those first three drinks barely sixty minutes into the party. Stiles immediately engaged him in another round of theorizing who would win next year’s rugby championships over a fourth pint, also consumed quite speedily. 

Now things were starting to spin just a touch, and John’s world was going a bit fuzzy around the edges. This state felt much more comfortable than his state earlier. He managed to keep himself upright over the next half hour as he cycled his way through chatting to the entire rugby team over a fifth pint. Mike Stamford eventually came back over to where John was sitting and started that entire side of the room in a rousing chorus of “For he’s a jolly good fellow”, which ended in John being held aloft on the shoulders of the rugby boys for the last repetition. 

The boys let John back down onto his barstool, and the blonde had to take a moment to regain his composure as a fit of dizziness had suddenly descended on him. He put his head between his knees for a moment and felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“All right?” It was Sherlock. The taller man’s hand slid down John’s back and off of his body altogether as John sat up, leaving a trail of faint electricity in its wake. John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes a bit bleary. 

“I’d be more alright if you’d take that bloody shirt off like you were being paid for it,” drawled John, a smile spreading across his face that he knew was lecherous and uncalled for. Sherlock’s brows furrowed slightly and he flicked his eyes to the ground, offended. 

“Ah, come on,” John continued, “flaunt what you’ve got, don’t be shy. That purple shirt is just begging to be ripped off you!” The group of people around John went strangely silent after that comment. It occurred to John that everyone was staring at them. Sherlock set his half-drunk glass of wine on the bar and left the room to go outside. 

John felt a bit of shame prickling at the back of his neck. 

“Good one, there,” a somewhat icy voice remarked behind him. John turned around to see Mary standing there with a glass of red wine in her hand. John moved to take a sip from his fifth pint but was dismayed to find it empty. Mary smiled humorlessly. 

“What?” John challenged her, slurring a little bit. Mary took a delicate sip of her wine. 

“It’s nothing,” she said airily. John folded his arms. 

“Don’t do this. Tell me.” 

Mary set down her wine. 

“Fine. You only ever get this drunk off your ass when something’s scaring the life out of you. When you’re about to make a big commitment and you decide you can’t do it after all, and then you run. Just like you ran to New York City from Sitka. So, I would just like to know if you want me to give the caterers a heads up that they won’t need to show up tomorrow, because there’s no earthly way you’re making it to this wedding tomorrow.” She picked up her wine again and drained it. John felt anger starting to roil within him. He rose to his feet, unaware that Sherlock had come back inside and was standing a few feet away.

“You are never going to forgive me for calling off our engagement, are you?” John fumed. “Has it crossed your mind that perhaps there was more at play in why that engagement came together in the first place than my feelings for you?” Mary’s expression was dour. 

“I’ve always had a feeling that you were a bit of a sheep, John. Always going with the crowd, being led around, never really capable of deciding a damn thing for yourself. Thank you for the final proof,” she concluded. John massaged his temples in a gesture of frustration. 

“Alright stop it now, I’ve had enough-” but before John could continue this rant, Irene had slipped a hand through the crook of his elbow and was holding him quite securely.

“That’s enough,” she declared. “You’ve both had plenty to drink, and the last thing this party needs is an all-out brawl.” She turned to address Mary, whose hands had begun to quiver with rage at her sides. “It’s time for you to leave, love. Kate and I will have you ‘round for supper at some point, but in the meantime I’m afraid you need to go.” Mary nodded curtly at Kate and offered a parting shot to John: 

“Where are you going to run this time Johnny? You don’t have anyone anywhere else.” And with that she turned on her heel and left. John made to shout something at her back, but was interrupted again by Irene. 

“And as for you, John, you need to take a walk. You’ve gotten a bit out of control tonight, and I’m embarrassed. Go and cool down, and don’t come back until you’ve decided you can behave like a civilized human being.” She marched John to the door that lead out onto the lawn, walked him through it, and then shut him outside. 

At this point John was thoroughly embarrassed in addition to positively furious. He stripped off his cardigan and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt to cool off a bit. No, that still wasn’t enough. He kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks as well so he could feel the grass beneath his toes. Cool and crisp, like it always was. Leaving the clothing behind completely, John walked out into the middle of the lawn near a transplanted English oak that stood there. It was most definitely not native to Alaska, but Irene loved oak trees and had an arboretum specialist plant one on her estate. 

It was up against the formidable trunk of this oak tree that John sat and took a few moments to breathe. He was reeling quite a bit from his altercation with Mary and was confused as to why it had happened in the first place. Mary was not a particularly combative person. She was assertive and unafraid to voice her strong opinions, but she was rarely intentionally combative. John ran a hand through his hair. Enough alcohol combined with latent emotions was bound to bring those out in one way or another. He folded his hands over his stomach and watched a couple of squirrels go by before he drifted off to sleep beneath the tree.   
________  
Sherlock discovered John beneath the oak tree in the front yard. It appeared that John had begun his little nap with his back up against the trunk, but it had certainly not ended that way. The shorter man was sprawled on the grass on his stomach with his mouth slightly open and a bit of drool hanging off of one side. Sherlock smirked. Being a drunken asshole and ending up in an embarrassing sleeping position like this seemed karmically wonderful. He pulled his phone out of his pants pocket and snapped a photo of John in this state for future blackmail. 

But Sherlock wasn’t a complete asshole, and he woke John gently by rubbing his shoulder. The shorter man jerked awake. He blinked up at Sherlock, a bit bleary-eyed. 

“How-” he stifled a huge yawn-”how long have I been asleep?” Sherlock looked at his phone. 

“Well, you came out here about an hour and a half ago. So maybe that long?” Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket. John screwed his eyes shut tight and rubbed them a few times as if trying to expunge exhaustion.Sherlock sat next to him and let him carry on. The taller man steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared out at the bay. 

“I’m sorry,” John said out of the blue. Sherlock turned to look at him. “For the comment I made about your shirt earlier,” John clarified. “It was rude and disrespectful of me, and I regret it.” Sherlock appreciated the apology. He wasn’t sure how John had managed to speak so clearly after having so much to drink but then again Sherlock didn’t really know the difference between vodka and tequila, much less the intricacies of how drunk was really drunk. At least the alcohol put John a little more in touch with his feelings. 

“Apology accepted, John. Thank you.” Sherlock made eye contact with John as he spoke, and then turned outwards again to look at the bay. He had some sense that John felt uncomfortable in the silence, but Sherlock neither wanted to nor knew what to say to break it. 

“You’re just-” John began, and took a deep breath. “You’re just so bloody _beautiful_ , Sherlock, that it’s easy for men like me to feel a bit intimidated in your presence.” 

The words hung in the air for a moment. 

“You-you find me beautiful.” Sherlock said, still not looking at John. Those words coming together in the same sentence caused his stomach to perform a haphazard little flip. 

A little chuckle escaped John’s throat and he removed Sherlock’s hands from beneath his chin and took them into his own. Sherlock adjusted his position so he and John were sitting facing each other. John placed Sherlock’s hands on his knees, palms facing upwards. 

“Yes, of course I find you beautiful,” John murmured, tracing the lines in Sherlock’s palms. Sherlock successfully fought the impulse to jump at John’s touch this time, and merely watched the shorter man’s fingers move up and down the creases in his hands. 

“You’re positively otherworldly,” John continued, trailing his fingers up Sherlock’s exposed forearms and to his elbows to where his shirt had been rolled up. “You’re brilliant and perceptive and you’re a fighter and you’re just a force of nature, really.” 

John rested his hands on Sherlock’s forearms, so that the taller man’s hands were cupping John’s elbows. John looked into Sherlock’s eyes and Sherlock was more than a little overwhelmed with the intensity of the gaze. It was as if John was seeing Sherlock as something much bigger than he was; as if galaxies were contained in the taller man’s eyes and Sherlock himself was at the center. 

They stayed like this for a few moments, both missing their jackets and and with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows and shoes and socks off. John’s hair was a bit mussed from sleeping in the grass, but Sherlock’s curls were still neat. The brunette ducked his head and broke eye contact first. He kept his hands in the position that they were, holding onto John and John holding onto him. 

When Sherlock lifted his head once more, his breath caught in his throat. John had leaned forward and Sherlock’s small motion had brought their foreheads together to touch. Sherlock could smell John’s cologne at this proximity, it smelled like cedar and something dark and heavy that was unmistakably _John_. 

John’s eyes met his once more in this intimate position. They were searching, questioning, asking for permission. Permission to move into far more intimate territory than either of them had dared to venture thus far. Sherlock saw sincerity in John’s eyes. 

What the hell. They were getting married tomorrow, anyhow. It would be good practice. Yeah…..practice. Sherlock leaned in.

It wasn’t the first time they had kissed. It wasn’t even the second time. But there was still something deeply different about this particular moment. Maybe it was the added romance from sitting under a brilliantly star-lit sky. Maybe it was the cool breeze drifting through the crisp Sitka air. Or maybe it was the way John was taking his time in kissing Sherlock-drawing it out, memorizing the ways his mouth curved and the way his breath caught in his throat. It might have been the way Sherlock’s sense of stability was slowly starting to fade and was being replaced by a dizzying weightlessness. John broke their embrace briefly to search Sherlock’s eyes once more. 

“Is-is this alright?” John asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Sherlock’s head was spinning as he looked at John. He couldn’t believe the daft idiot would think it _wasn’t_ alright. 

“God, yes,” Sherlock answered, and with that he broke their locked arms, rose to his knees, and straddled John in the grass before diving headlong into another kiss that tipped the scales from languorous and sweet to heated and urgent. 

And John responded. Oh, God, John responded with a gorgeous enthusiasm that made Sherlock think he was in a dream. The way John’s hands were sliding up his back and across his shoulders left little trails of pure electricity in their wake. His mouth was soft and sweet and insistent against Sherlock’s and the brunette wondered why he hadn’t begun kissing John a long time ago, as it was quickly becoming his favorite pastime. 

He pulled back to catch his breath and to just look at John for a moment. The shorter man was radiant beneath him, supporting Sherlock’s weight with little apparent discomfort. John’s eyes were shining in the darkness and his golden hair was mussed on the sides, lit beautifully by the pale moonlight and by the residual light from the house. 

Sherlock felt a soft smile stealing across his face. An answering expression came from John that was not quite a smile itself, but it was gentle and full of what was unmistakably adoration. Which blew Sherlock’s mind and didn’t strike him as entirely possible. He brought a hand up from its position around John’s waist to cup the blonde’s face and trace over his newly-reddened lips. The look John wore felt unbearably private, as if these were feelings John had never meant to make public, but here they were, written across the face that Sherlock had known for quite some time but only felt like he was just now starting to truly understand. 

“I’m afraid I’m getting a bit chilly, Sherlock,” John said softly, his breath hot around Sherlock’s fingers. It suddenly occurred to the brunette that he couldn’t feel his toes. He looked down at his feet and noted that they were bright red from being knelt on and icy cold. This revelation sent Sherlock into a fit of giggles. He rolled off of John’s lap and onto his back in the grass, shaking slightly. John watched him, bemused. 

“You-erm-you alright?” John asked, tilting his head slightly as he watched Sherlock try to get ahold of himself. 

“We just-we’re out here on the lawn-” Sherlock paused to take a few more deep breaths- “making out like a pair of teenagers while everyone else is inside at a party that’s supposed to be for _us_!” A smile flickered across John’s face, but he didn’t quite see the same hilarity. 

“Well, ah, I was hoping-” John began, and Sherlock quieted down a bit. “I was hoping there would be a bit more to happen than just the kissing, though that has been excellent.” 

The pair made eye contact. John’s pupils had darkened significantly, and Sherlock took his meaning right away. He pulled himself up off the ground and offered a hand to John. They surveyed the house. It looked like a few people were still there. 

“We’ll just have to be extra secretive, then,” Sherlock told John, and then took his hand. They scampered across the lawn together and snuck in the main doorway of the house. It seemed like a good option as everyone who remained was in the living room and the foyer was deserted. Sherlock looked around surreptitiously to make sure no one was watching and motioned for John to go up the stairs ahead of him. The brunette followed closely behind but paused halfway up the stairs when he heard someone hiss his name. 

He whirled around and blanched to see Kate standing at the bottom of the stairs. She flashed him a thumbs-up and a brilliant smile. Relief flooded Sherlock’s system. He returned the gesture and finished climbing the stairs until he finally reached the room. Sherlock shut the door behind him and turned the lock. 

John was sitting in the center of the bed, staring at the quilt and tugging absent-mindedly at his tie. Thinking about something, no doubt, but Sherlock hadn’t a clue as to what. He sat next to John on the bed and gently removed his hand from the tie. 

“I’d like to take care of this, if you don’t mind,” Sherlock gently untied the strip of fabric and pulled at it so that it slipped out of the blonde’s collar. John was very still, but his eyes were moving over every bit of Sherlock he could take in at this proximity. 

The shirt was next. Long fingers set to work at undoing the buttons one by one and pausing to drop a feathery-light kiss on each new patch of exposed skin. Sherlock reveled in the little shivers that went through John’s body as he slowly freed him of his top. The brunette was certainly no stranger to sex, but he was all but incapable of doing it casually. And so it was with a quiet reverence that he peeled John’s shirt off his shoulders and settled in the curve where John’s neck met his shoulders for a moment before setting to work on the smaller man’s trousers. 

John’s helpless little gasp when Sherlock took him into his mouth felt like a confirmation, that maybe this wasn’t pretend for John. The brunette felt the weight of a year of taking and taking and taking from John, asking him to give up family gatherings and a personal life all to do Sherlock’s bidding, and a new sensation came bubbling to the top-guilt. 

John hadn’t deserved a single moment of the past year of hell Sherlock had put him through. The brunette was overcome with the burden of what he had discovered about John in the past week-the hurt that lay in his past and the astonishing work ethic he had built up in response to that. The love he had in his heart for Kate and the love lost between John and Irene. The fierce loyalty with which John defended their relationship to would-be doubters...what had Sherlock done to deserve any of this? A terrifying thought poked its way into the back of his mind-he might possibly be in love with John Watson. And that, far and above all other things, was more than Sherlock could handle. 

So Sherlock gave with everything he had and when John came with a muffled cry the brunette felt as though he had given back at least a tiny bit of what John had given him over the course of the time they had known each other. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, moving to get up from the bed. But he found himself being pulled back towards John instead. 

The blonde tugged on his shoulders with a mumbled “not giving up on you just yet” and pulled him back down into a series of lazy kisses that felt far too intimate. Too familiar and too much like home….Sherlock couldn’t help sinking into them and losing himself in the firmness and warmth that was John. The brunette was completely at a loss as to why John insisted on giving back everything he got tenfold. 

John flipped them over and began a thorough exploration of Sherlock’s mouth that left the taller man utterly breathless, and once he was able to catch his breath a bit, bewildered again at John’s selflessness. The blonde began trailing open-mouthed kisses down Sherlock’s exposed chest-and there was no way Sherlock deserved this. There was no way he deserved any of the meticulous care John was showing him, and no way it could possibly be as genuine as it felt. He allowed John to continue partly because he knew it was in the blonde’s nature to be giving towards him and John seemed to want this, and partly because his body was completely betraying him and the closer John got to his thighs, the less Sherlock had any capability for rational thought. 

John finished Sherlock off in what the brunette was sure was embarrassingly fast, but the shorter man didn’t seem to mind. He dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead afterwards and brought him a damp washcloth so they could clean up a bit. Sherlock accepted the washcloth and sat up for a moment while John settled into bed next to him. The hazy buzz from his climax was settling almost as quickly as it had oome, and with it the self-doubt that had become Sherlock’s constant companion in the past few days. 

A warm, calloused hand snaked up around Sherlock’s chest and tugged downwards. John’s eyes were mostly closed as he tried to maneuver Sherlock to lay down, but the idea was clear. Sherlock curled up on his side and John tucked himself around him with an arm looped protectively over Sherlock’s middle. And damn it all, the brunette loved this. So he dozed off, safe in the arms of John Watson, even if it was only for a night.


	10. Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock wake up to each other. And then the wedding happens, and things start to fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. I'm so sorry this took so long. My life got absolutely insane, NaNoWriMo pulled me under in a sea of wordy craziness, and I wanted this chapter to be good. So here it is for you all, thanks for reading, and as always, thank you to hermadnessmac.tumblr.com for being my fab beta and making me a better writer. 
> 
> Come find me at cumberwho-and-johnlock.tumblr.com

John awoke the next day tangled up in Sherlock. The man had to be the messiest sleeper he had ever known. His forehead was buried in John’s shoulder and his steady breathing was hot against John’s skin. Their legs were wound together, competing for space, and their arms wrapped around one another as best as they could manage while sleeping on their sides. John couldn’t help grinning. This was the best way to wake up. He thought that he would quite like to wake up like this for a long time. Perhaps even forever. 

Sherlock jerked a little in his sleep. John dropped a kiss on top of the messy curls that had become rather astonishingly dear to him. Really, he didn’t have a clue as to how his heart had changed so dramatically and so completely towards Sherlock Holmes. The blonde disentangled an arm from around Sherlock’s waist very slowly and began twirling gentle fingers in his lover’s hair. 

God, that’s what they were now, wasn’t it. Lovers. The word felt weighty and profound, but also utterly fitting. Lovers. Because there was no getting around it. He, John Watson, _loved_ Sherlock Holmes. The full realization of that made John a bit giddy. He loved Sherlock Holmes. They were married, and there was going to be a formal ceremony today. How the twists and turns of the past several weeks had led to this point was completely beyond John. But it had happened. 

It occurred to him as he alternated between gently tracing Sherlock’s curls and dropping little kisses on his head that maybe this hadn’t been as sudden as it seemed. Little moments from the past year as Sherlock’s assistant began flashing by in John’s mind, and in retrospect he was able to see a very slow progression. And for the second time that morning, John Watson came to a realization. 

“I think I’ve loved you for quite some time now,” he whispered into the sleeping man’s hair. A moment passed, and he felt the taller man stir beneath him. His heart skittered a little bit, but he wasn’t entirely sure Sherlock had heard him. Sherlock shifted a bit so that he was eye to eye with John. The mad editor’s eyes looked heavy and full of emotion. He closed the gap between himself and John in a kiss, and John didn’t say anything about the tears flowing silently from Sherlock’s eyes to John’s cheeks. He just held Sherlock closer. 

A knock on the door made them break apart. 

“Boys! Breakfast in an hour and then the photographer will be here!” Kate’s chipper voice rang through the door. John rubbed his eyes, accidentally elbowing Sherlock in the ribs. This seemed to suppress the emotion the brunette was previously feeling, and he retaliated by smacking John with a pillow. This prompted the blonde to pin Sherlock to the bed and sit directly on his stomach, knocking the air out of him. Sherlock surrendered, and John rolled off of him onto the floor. 

“That’ll teach you to mess with me,” John said, brushing his palms together. Sherlock chucked the pillow at his back as he headed into the ensuite. John emerged several minutes later, freshly shaven and with his hair combed. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

“Not bad,” he remarked. John scoffed. 

“Not bad? I’m a handsome man, and you are dead lucky that you ended up with me when you were in need of a husband.” John walked over to the closet and pulled out his freshly ironed tuxedo. He felt Sherlock’s arms slip around his middle from behind and the brunette press a soft kiss to the top of his head. 

“That I am,” he agreed, and took his turn in the ensuite. 

John pulled on the tuxedo with little trouble, but was stumped when it came to the bowtie. He heard the door to the ensuite open back up and hastily tried to finish tying the tie, but all he succeeded in doing was tying an uneven knot that looked like a poorly executed cravat tie. Sherlock’s throaty chuckle sounded from the doorjamb of the ensuite. John sighed, undid the knot, and waited for Sherlock to walk over to where he was. 

The brunette tied the the tie expertly while clad only in a towel tied loosely around his waist. John fixed his eyes on that lovely little spot where Sherlock’s neck met his shoulder and not on the creases that started just below the man’s hips and disappeared below the towel. It was his wedding day. Well, his second one, but it was still his wedding day and he had to contain himself until the formalities were over. Sherlock finished tying the tie and stepped back to get a good look at John. 

“Well?” John asked, spreading his arms and spinning around. “Acceptable?” Sherlock had gone quiet again, and John searched his eyes for what was wrong. As usual though, the man was impenetrable from just a glance. John scratched the back of his neck. 

“You look fantastic, John,” Sherlock said quietly. “I’ll go get changed.” And with that he extracted his suit from the closet and disappeared into the ensuite again, this time for much longer than before. John busied himself with checking his work email and tapping out a few replies before Sherlock finally came out, looking devastatingly handsome in his perfectly-fitted tuxedo. John looked up at him and had to look down again immediately. 

“Yeah, alright,” John managed, and finished tapping out the reply he was working on before shutting his laptop. “Shall we go get breakfast then?” He stood up from where he was sitting on the bed and opened the door. 

“Smells like Kate’s cooking tofu scramble,” Sherlock deduced. John gestured for Sherlock to go through the door ahead of him. 

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” John followed behind Sherlock. “She’s a bacon enthusiast and will be until her dying day, that one.” Sherlock harrumphed that his guess was incorrect, and they bickered over what was cooking all the way down the broad staircase. 

“Boys!” Kate sang from the kitchen. She was bent over a frying pan on the stove and turned around to motion for Sherlock and John to sit at the bar counter. They obliged, and Sherlock immediately reached for two long stretches of paper towels and handed one to John. 

“I don’t need a bib, Sherlock,” John said indignantly. 

“And I don’t want to marry someone who’s got a stain the size of Alaska on his dress shirt,” Sherlock replied crisply, and tucked his own paper towel into his shirt so it formed a makeshift bib. John scowled but tucked the paper towel into his own shirt. Kate produced two beautifully arranged plates of tofu scramble and baked parmesan tomatoes. Sherlock smirked at John as they accepted their food.

“Kate, you are an artist,” Sherlock complimented her, and took a delicate bite of his tofu scramble. John rolled his eyes but dug in anyways. 

“Thank you, darling. Usually I’d have bacon up the wazoo for the two of you, but I didn’t want you too weighed down before the ceremony.” She turned from her position at the pan with her own plate of tofu scramble and ate with them. They ate busily for several minutes with little conversation flowing, the most being what the weather was like that day and which random relatives would be showing up at the ceremony. 

The doorbell rang, interrupting a debate between Kate and Sherlock as to which wine would compliment the main course of the dinner at the reception the best. John leapt up from his seat, glad for the distraction, and answered the door. 

“Mike Samford?” John greeted him, a little taken aback. “I didn’t know you were a photographer!” 

“Sitka’s only and Sitka’s finest!” he answered proudly. “You going to let me in, or what? It’s chilly out there!” John stepped back and gestured for Mike to enter the room. The portly, balding man bustled through with his camera hung around his neck. 

“Mike!” Kate turned round to the pan again and pulled down another plate from the cabinet. “Can I tempt you with some tofu scramble?” She pushed around the remaining tofu in the pan. 

“No thank you, Kate, I’d like to get going on these photos if you don’t mind,” Mike held up his camera importantly. Kate scooped the leftover tofu scramble onto her plate instead. 

“Suit yourself, love.”   
Mike turned his attention to John and Sherlock. 

“Don’t you boys just look as dapper as anything,” he complimented them. “These suits turned out wonderfully, and you compliment each other just perfectly. Now come on, let’s head outside to get some photos.” 

They followed him out the front door to a blindingly beautiful morning and a crisp blue sky. Mike proceeded to spend the next hour and a half arranging John and Sherlock into various different positions. He started with the pair of them together, side by side with their top hats under their arms. Sherlock groused about how the hats were so out of ate and looked absurd, and John tried to shut him up with some mumbling about how it was “traditional”. 

They progressed to photos of each of them individually at various locations around the estate-in front of the giant tree in the front yard, to in the doorway of the house, and even in John’s old hollowed-out canoe. When Mike suggested that they take a photo in the lone paddleboat that was on the estate, Jon put his foot down. 

“That’s really enough photographs, don’t you think?” He tried to keep as much tightness as he could out of his voice. Mike’s affronted expression told him he hadn’t been very successful. 

“Alright, alright,” the stout man gave in. “But I’ve got to get at least one of the two of you kissing.” John and Sherlock looked at each other, a bit surprised that Mike had suggested this. The man seemed to catch onto their surprise and he shrugged.

“It’s a wedding staple. Everyone wants a sweet photo of the couple kissing. Please, humor me.” He led them over to the oak tree in the front yard. “Now don’t make it too x-rated, but I don’t want it to be just a peck either.” 

John looked up at Sherlock and saw a fleeting bit of fear cross the brunette’s gorgeous eyes. So he didn’t hesitate and took Sherlock’s jacket collars into his hands and pulled him down until their lips smashed together. It wasn’t delicate but it wasn’t too heated either-it was this fascinating middle ground that John just _sunk_ into, and found himself wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck and running his fingers through the curls at that nape that he loved so much. Sherlock secured his own arms around John’s waist, and with this motion introduced a new urgency into the kiss, one that felt like Sherlock was memorizing him-the grip around his waist was just a little too tight, and the pressure on his lips lingering just a little too long. 

So John broke the embrace and looked up at Sherlock, brows furrowed. But before he could ask what that was all about, Mike was coming up to them and wrapping them in a teary embrace, mumbling that they were “so beautiful together” and that he “couldn’t wait for the wedding”. John patted Mike’s broad shoulders awkwardly, and the stout man broke the embrace and waddled back indoors, clicking through the photos on his camera and sniffling.  
“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” John asked Sherlock. The mad editor wouldn’t look him in the eye, and instead followed Mike back inside. John massaged his temples and hoped they could deal with it after the ceremony.   
______  
John gaped at the wedding decorations Kate had put up in the barn. The woman had gone completely out of her way to make it look like an encapsulation of their relationship. Which, given that it was fake, (or at least it used to be), and that she had only known the pair of them for under a week, it was a remarkable job done. 

Dark green ribbons lined the main center aisle, and big, puffy bows of the same color were on the back of every chair. She had arranged red roses rather artfully at the top of the center aisle, and in the middle of the chair arrangements and at the back of the barn itself. Round fairy lights decorated the walls, and the main lighting was turned down so that the entire room had this soft lighting that John didn’t realize was precisely perfect for his wedding until then. 

Guests had begun filing in. John noticed the sleazy visage of Jim Moriarty in the crowd of guests, and scoffed. God, that man would give them no peace. He exited the barn again to stand next to Sherlock. They had decided to walk down the aisle together; as neither of them had living parents it seemed strange to have one of them walked down the aisle at all. Sherlock took John’s arm. 

“You ready?” John asked. Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded. 

“Yes, ready,” he affirmed. Canon in D began to play, and John felt a little thrill in his stomach (whether it was dread or happiness he wasn’t quite sure) as they walked steadily down the aisle together. Sherlock’s grip on John’s arm grew steadily tighter the further they got to the altar, and John heard his breath catch a little in his throat once they reached Ramone, who was going to be officiating the ceremony. 

“Welcome, welcome!” Ramone cried. “Today, we are going to be celebrating the love of two people!” He gestured to John and Sherlock. “John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes. We will be celebrating their love and their joining in marriage before their families.” Ramone gestured widely and over-exaggeratedly to the gathered guests. 

“Because it is their families who taught John and Sherlock to love-” Sherlock lifted a hand and cut Ramone off at this point. The bronze-skinned exotic dancer-turned-officiator leaned over to Sherlock. 

“What is wrong, _mi amor_?” asked Ramone, genuine concern on his face. John’s heart had dropped into his stomach. What the hell was Sherlock doing? The brunette swallowed hard and seemed to gather some courage. He turned around to face the audience. 

“Hello, everyone,” he began. “Thank you all for coming today. I-erm-I have an announcement to make today. About the wedding.” 

“Sherlock,” John hissed, trying to get him to stop. But Sherlock wouldn’t be stopped. 

“I am an Englishman. This may already be obvious to you with my accent, but I am not American. I am English, and I had an expired visa and was about to be deported.” 

John was rooted to the spot. Sherlock was doing it. He was exposing the entire scam. 

“I was about to be deported, and I forced John here to marry me.” Sherlock gestured to John with a sad little smile on his face. “You see, John,” and here he paused, trying to gather the words. “John has always had this extraordinary work ethic. I saw him work his way up through our department and work harder than anyone in the whole building.” Sherlock looked at Irene. “That’s something I think he learned from you,” he addressed her. 

John’s eyes fell on Moriarty in the audience. The slimeball looked like he had just been told Christmas was coming early. Sherlock continued. 

“John is possibly the most driven person I have ever met. So I knew that if I threatened his career, he would do just about anything for me. So I-” Sherlock’s voice grew tight, and he cleared his throat. “I blackmailed him into marrying me in New York City so that I could continue at my job at Baker Street Books. I blackmailed him into coming up here and lying to all of you.” 

“Sherlock, stop,” John begged. 

“And I thought it would be easy to watch him do it,” Sherlock continued. “But it wasn’t.” He turned to look at John again for a moment and there was so much sadness in his expression that John felt a lump rise in his own throat. “It turns out it’s not so easy to ruin someone’s life once you find out how wonderful they are.” 

“Sherlock,” John said again. This couldn’t be happening. 

“John, this was a business deal. You held up your end of the bargain, but now the deal is off.” Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder and then left the altar and walked back up the aisle towards the door. He passed Moriarty on his way out. 

“And you,” he addressed the government agent, “you meet me at the docks. You’re giving me a ride to the airport. Moriarty sprang up from his chair, clearly elated, and followed after Sherlock. And then he was gone. Just like that. 

John stood at the altar, staring at the door through which Sherlock had just disappeared. That was it. He was gone. Out the door. There was a vague notion in the back of his mind that perhaps there was a bit of a din going on around him-people babbling about what had just happened, and his family approaching him. 

“John! John, I cannot believe you,” Kate was shaking him by the shoulders. “Why did you lie to us?” She looked distraught, her eyes were full of tears and a few had already spilled over, smearing her mascara. John just looked at her, but his eyes were blank and he couldn’t really focus on her face. 

“Say something to me,” she demanded. “You owe me that much. Say something to me.” John couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say anything. Kate’s eyes met his, and she looked broken. John wanted to do something for her-some giant brush stroke to make it all better. He sank to the floor and buried his face in his hands. 

“I’m disappointed, John.” Irene was standing over him, and he looked up at her. “I’m disappointed. I thought you had changed.” She turned on her heel and stalked out of the barn, fury radiating from her every step. 

How had things crumbled so quickly? 

“Well, at least it wasn’t you who left this time.” Mary Morstan was sitting down next to him on the stairs. 

“If you’ve come to gloat, Mary,” John trailed off. She put a hand on his shoulder.

“I haven’t, mate. I’ve come to ask you why you’re still sitting here.” She cradled her chin in her hands and waited for John to give an answer. He blinked back a few lone tears but several more followed in their wake and fell anyways. 

“I, well, what else am I supposed to do?” 

“You could follow him. Go after him. Don’t let him get away.” There was a conviction in her voice that John had only heard a few times before. He was surprised that she wasn’t still holding a grudge from the previous night. 

“He won’t want me to,” John protested. 

“You don’t know that. Besides, I don’t think he knows.” Mary’s expression was soft and sympathetic, and John was overwhelmed with fresh guilt. He didn’t deserve to be so quickly forgiven. 

“Knows what,” asked John, though he knew perfectly well what.   
“Sherlock Holmes seems to me the type of man who is quite good at deducing everything about other people, except as it relates to himself. I just don’t think he knows how you feel about him.” 

“And you know?” John picked a piece of lint off his pants. 

“I do, because you look at him with ten times the adoration that your gaze used to hold for me.” Mary smiled a small, sad smile, and John’s heart clenched a bit. He took one of her hands into his own. 

“I’m sorry it didn’t work between us, Mary.” John felt sincere about this one. 

“Some things just aren’t meant to be. But you and Sherlock? You are. So go on then. Beat him back to New York.” Mary patted John’s hand and gestured for him to get out the door. He dropped a perfunctory kiss on top of her head and stood up and walked out the door. Before John could properly pat around in his pockets for his phone to call a friend at the airport, Irene stopped him. 

“This has to end now, John. You will sit and explain every bit of this and you will do it now.” Irene was still seething, and her voice was low and deadly quiet. 

“No, I don’t even want to see his face anymore.” Kate was tugging on Irene’s sleeve a little from her other side, trying to get her to go indoors. Granny Hudson was approaching the group rapidly. 

“Irene, I can explain later, but right now I have to get to the airport-” John was trying to say, but Granny came careening into the middle of their little group and then collapsed to the ground in between the two of them. John stared at her, crumpled on the ground for a moment and then immediately dropped to his knees and tapped Granny on the shoulder, hard, trying to get her to wake up. When she was unresponsive, he immediately dialed 911 to call an evacuation plane. 

Irene bent next to Granny as well and began speaking soothingly to her in a low voice. The plane arrived fairly quickly and the three of them clambered into it as the EMTs loaded Granny onto a gurney and set her up with an oxygen mask. John’s heart finally quit pounding out of his chest once the plane had been up for a few minutes and they were on track to Anchorage where there was a big hospital. Irene and Kate were fixated on Granny, whose eyes were slowly fluttering open. 

“Granny? Granny, are you alright?” John reached for one of her little hands and enclosed it in his own. Granny’s eyes met his and she smiled weakly. 

“John,” she rasped. “John, Irene. Come here.” She held out a hand in Irene’s direction and Irene took it. “You two have to stop fighting,” Granny declared. “You won’t always see eye to eye, but you need to show each other more often that you love each other.” John and Irene caught each other’s eye, and John thought perhaps he saw a little softness there. Irene extracted her hand from Granny’s and placed it on top of John’s. 

Granny addressed John directly now. “And you need to make more of an effort to be part of this family. I know our gatherings aren’t your favorite thing, but we miss you when you’re not here. Alright?” 

John cleared his throat. “Yes, alright, alright Granny. I will.” She smiled again and folded her hands on top of her stomach. 

“Well then. The spirits can take me.” She closed her eyes and Kate gave a kind of hiccuping sob. A lump rose in John’s throat and he felt Irene tense up next to him. Several moments passed, and then Granny’s eyes snapped back open again. 

“I guess the spirits aren’t ready for me!” she chirped, and sat up in bed. “I’m feeling much better, Jackie, take us to the airport!” she addressed the pilot. 

“We can’t just go off course, Granny!” the pilot protested. 

“Jackie Smellings,” Granny threatened, “don’t make me call your mother.” The pilot blanched. 

“Yes ma’am,” she said, and the plane changed course to Anchorage airport. Granny unearthed a smart phone from her pocket and handed it to John. 

“Now, call the first person in my favorites, and they’ll get you a seat on the next flight out of Anchorage, direct to New York.” Granny folded her arms across her middle again, looking quite pleased with herself. She tugged the sheet on the gurney around herself rather primly. John wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, so he just took the phone, dialed the number she had indicated, and secured himself a seat on the next flight to New York City, departing just after they landed. 

Granny, Kate, and Irene followed John out onto the tarmac. An air traffic controller rushed up to John and took his arm to lead him over to the stairs leading into the main cabin of the plane to New York. Before he could be led away completely, Irene took his other arm and drew him into a bear hug. John froze briefly before raising his arms up to her shoulders. They parted after a moment, and their eyes met. She cracked a small, tight smile, and patted him on the shoulder. John nodded crisply and blinked hard several times before being engulfed in Kate’s embrace. 

“Go get him, love,” she whispered in his ear, and her eyes were swimming with tears when they broke apart. John smiled a bit more this time and followed the air traffic controller to the plane. 

Back to the Big Apple, back to reality. And other conundrums.


	11. Back in New York City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock flies back to New York City to pack up his office and head back across the pond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a big thank you to my wonderful beta and friend hermadnessmac.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Do come and bother me on the tumblr machine if that's your thing: cumberwho-and-johnlock.tumblr.com
> 
> And thanks for reading, this story's been a wild ride and it's meant the world to me to have you all along. 
> 
> One more chapter left (the epilogue)! I promise lots of fluffy feels and happy times for all.

Sherlock opened his drawers and began neatly stacking the contents into cardboard boxes he had bought from the post office down the road. Drawer one contained several binders with indexed review sheets of manuscripts, organized by month. John had put the bulk of those together after listening to Sherlock go on about the merits and drawbacks of each one. He opened the binder marked “February” and thumbed through it absently. John’s neat handwriting stretched across the top of the page, marking the title of a romance manuscript they had received. 

Sherlock had hated that one. He’d read it in an evening on a Friday night, and though it moved quickly, it didn’t sit right with him. It was too cliched, he remembered telling John, too predictable. John had protested that sometimes people needed that. Sometimes they needed things to end precisely the way they expected, and as long as the prose was done well, it didn’t matter that the story was predictable.The world needed reminding that love was still a thing that played out in people’s lives, even if it wasn’t their own lives. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up and down the page that held the story synopsis as well as John’s review and why it had ended up being chosen for publication. Must have had a few redeeming qualities, at least. Maybe Sherlock would read that one over again. He folded the binder shut and stacked it in the box. 

Drawer two: a binder of memos to Sherlock from various people in the office, indexed and summarized by John. The man had always put notes on top of each memo, telling Sherlock which ones could afford to be ignored and which ones needed more immediate attention. John had always made an extra effort to make Sherlock’s life easier. He had always tried to make his job move more smoothly. All Sherlock had done was continue to beat him down and give him more work and more menial tasks. Sherlock bit his lip hard enough to find the coppery taste of blood rising in his mouth. He winced at the memory of exactly how few times he had even bothered to thank John for going above and beyond the call of duty with these things. He wasn’t sure he had ever thanked him, but the man had just continued on anyways. Sherlock shook his head. At least now John was free of him and could go and accomplish the amazing things with his career that Sherlock knew he was capable of. 

There had to be something else he could do for John before he left back for England. Getting out of the marriage sham was definitely something, but there had to be at least a little something else. Something to reward John’s career efforts and move him up the ladder, which was a change Sherlock had prevented because John made his life as an editor so smooth. Sherlock remembered an earlier promise he had made to John, and he knew exactly what to do. He scrawled out a memo to HR to give John his editor position once he was back in England, and to publish his book with a 30,000 copy first run. They’d do anything for Sherlock, especially since they hated to lose him. At least management would miss him.

He wondered for a brief moment if John would miss him at all, and brushed the thought from his head. The blonde probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone. Nah, he’d probably be grateful for the weight off. John had put away a few pints before their night together after the stag party, he probably didn’t fully understand what he was doing and the depth of Sherlock’s attachment to him. There was a little tugging at his heart that perhaps John meant every second of the tenderness he had shown, but that just seemed utterly improbable. John was an accommodating man, and he was accommodating Sherlock. Just adding a little verisimilitude to their charade to mix things up. Yeah, that was it. They were just mixing it up. 

“When’s your flight out, boss?” One of the interns poked his head into Sherlock’s office, holding a clipboard. 

“Early tomorrow morning. Schedule me a cab, would you?” Sherlock waved the boy away, and he left. He spent the next several minutes stacking and boxing up his various office supplies. 

“So can I have your office once you’re well and truly gone, or has someone else already claimed it?” Sherlock would recognize the sneering voice of Philip Anderson anywhere.

“Get out, Anderson, you lower the IQ of the whole office.” Sherlock didn’t even look at him. 

“Please, Sherlock, you know management will hire me back on as soon as you’re gone.” Anderson stepped through Sherlock’s door jamb and the editor sighed theatrically. 

“Anything to get you through the day, Anderson.” 

“Well, just send my love to whatever sub-par publishing company that hires you back across the pond, if any of them will hire you after you’ve resigned in disgrace.” Anderson patted Sherlock’s shoulder harder than was entirely necessary and sauntered out of the office. Sherlock couldn’t even come up with any further insults for his former colleague, so he just flipped him the bird behind his back as he was leaving.  
______  
John was sure he had never been on a longer flight in his life. He pored over the details of the past week in his head over and over again, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. The only thing he could think of to explain why Sherlock would have left is that he didn’t realize how John felt about him. John buried his head in his hands. God, how could Sherlock not know? He should have just told him, before they dozed off in one another’s arms, told him while looking him straight in the eye so there was no room for confusion. 

But really, was John even brave enough for a move like that? He shifted in his aisle seat and stuck his legs out to the side in an attempt to get more space to stretch them out. Mary and their failed attempt to build a life together started to creep into his head without his permission. That had been a reasonably good relationship, or at least he had thought so before it went down in flames and he took of to New York City like a bloody coward. John swallowed hard. No. It was time to stop being a coward. 

He dug around in his bag under the seat in front of him, feeling around for something. Yep, it was still there. John leaned back in his seat and spent the remainder of the flight rehearsing dozens of different varieties of speeches to give to Sherlock once they were reunited, each more ridiculous than the last. Because John Watson’s problem when it came to Sherlock Holmes was that the mad editor had a habit of leaving him speechless. Not just when he was breathless above John, but also when he was in his element in his job-pushing submitted novels to greatness and plucking out tiny gems from the massive haystack they dealt with daily. 

John ran a hand over his face, trying to rub the tiredness from his eyes. He was hopeless. He was completely and utterly and hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it had been inevitable along. Maybe they had been pulled together slowly, irrevocably over time like opposite poles of a magnet. And now that they had finally connected, John felt a piece of himself missing without Sherlock in his presence. He brought a wholeness to John’s life that he didn’t know he needed until now. His stumbling around in the dark had finally come to an end, and dammit if Sherlock wasn’t a silvery, brilliant moon lighting up John’s inky sky. 

The plane finally came to a landing with a jolt, and John hefted his bag over his shoulder. It was time.  
_______  
Shortly, Sherlock’s office was bare. Just like he had found it when he first got the job a few years ago. He had been so ready to climb the ladder back then, so ready to do whatever it took to be editor-in-chief. Sherlock gave a dry, rueful chuckle. God, how things had changed. He taped up the last box of office supplies. 

“No pictures to box up then, eh Holmes?” Patricia, one of the office administrators, was leaning against his door jamb with a smirk on her face. Sherlock pressed his lips together. God, would these people never stop. He knew none of them really liked him, but still.

“If you’ve come to gloat, Patricia, do try to do it in complete sentences. I know grammatical structure is difficult for someone of your caliber to understand, but humor me,” he snapped. 

“Yeah, yeah. Never the most popular kid in the sandbox, were you Holmes? Can’t say I’ll miss you.” She turned and left, and Sherlock bit back a retort. He massaged his temples and turned to his window that overlooked the city. He stared out at the skyscrapers, trying to memorize the view of the landscape before he had to head back to London. He’d miss the jagged skyline of the Big Apple. And other things, of course. But no use dwelling on that now. 

“You might want this for your desk,” A voice came from behind him. Sherlock recognized it immediately, but still found himself stunned to be looking into the face of a rather unkempt and exhausted-looking John Watson. He was holding up a framed version of one of their wedding pictures; the one where they were kissing in front of the oak at the Sitka estate. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He just stared at the picture in John’s hands. The corners of the blonde’s mouth twitched. 

“This might be the first time I’ve ever rendered Sherlock Holmes speechless,” he remarked wryly, taking a few steps towards Sherlock. John put the photo down on the [former] editor’s now-empty desk and stood in front of him. “So,” John continued. “Are you going to tell me why you left me at the altar? Because I’m just going to tell you right now, that was a bit not good.” 

“I-John-wanted to free you of me-obligations,” Sherlock spluttered. John cracked a half-smile this time and held a finger to Sherlock’s lips. 

“Something has been becoming increasingly clear to me over the past week.” John leaned up against Sherlock’s desk, and his eyes briefly locked with Sherlock’s before they fixed on his lapel. “A week ago, I thought I loathed you.” John folded his arms. “I thought you hated me and everyone else in the world, and I was more than happy to return that emotion.” 

“Great, yeah, well if you’ve come to berate me, I’d rather just-”

“Sherlock, you’re going to need to stop talking in order to hear everything I have to say.” John’s tone was firm and shut Sherlock up right away, sending a little shiver down his spine at John’s taking control. “Right,” John continued. “I thought that I hated you. But then you started us down this insane path to get you to stay in the country, and things started to change.” John shifted his feet beneath him. “Things started to change when you asked me to marry you. Everything changed in Sitka, especially when we kissed in front of Irene and Kate and God and everybody and this tiny little spark got lit.”

John’s eyes met Sherlock’s, and the mad editor was briefly overcome with the heaviness in John’s. If Sherlock wasn’t mistaken, they were heavy with something that looked dangerously like-but his thoughts were interrupted as John continued to talk. 

“Things changed when I started to realize that maybe I didn’t stick with you just for the sake of my career.” John had taken up staring at a point just past Sherlock’s ear. “Maybe I stuck with this job that any other sane person would quit, because of you. Because maybe there’s been something in here-” John tapped his hand on his chest, “for you for quite awhile. And that confused me. But it all made sense after the stag night.” John paused here and a little smile flickered across his face, apparently from the memory of their night together. 

Sherlock felt a little heat rising in his cheeks. John’s smile faded and he continued. “It all became glaringly obvious to me when I was standing alone. In a barn. Without my husband.” John’s breathing was starting to get a little more rapid, and Sherlock was deducing a small rise in his heartbeat. He had an idea of what was coming next, but it seemed impossible. 

“So imagine my surprise,” John continued, “when it occurred to me that I was about to let the man I love fly back across the goddamn Atlantic Ocean, and that I would never see him again.” Their eyes met again, and Sherlock was fixated on the middle part of what John had said.

“You-you love me, then,” he said, his voice small and unsure. It was here that John’s smile spread all the way across his face and he chuckled a little. Sherlock was confused. Why was he laughing, Sherlock needed to know the answer-

“Of course I love you, you great oblivious prat.” John interrupted his runaway train of thought again. He closed the gap between him and Sherlock in a stride, slipped his arms up around Sherlock’s neck and twirled a finger in his nape curl. Now Sherlock’s heart was the one picking up its pace, threatening to beat right out of his chest. The brunette licked his lips and the expression in John’s eyes suddenly fell into sharp clarity. John loved him. John _loved_ him. 

“Of course I love you,” John said again. 

“But I’m...I’m difficult, and you don’t-you deserve-you-” Sherlock couldn’t quite verbalize what he wanted to say, but John appeared to catch his drift. 

“This isn’t about _deserving_ , Sherlock. I _want_ this. I want _you_.” John stood on his toes and kissed Sherlock, but the taller man pulled away after a moment.

“I-I love you too, John. I think I have for awhile.” he told the shorter man, struggling to not be overwhelmed by the adoration radiating from him. John grinned and twirled Sherlock’s nape curl in his fingers again. 

“Good,” he said softly. “Good, yeah. That’s good.” 

“But I’m scared.” Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at John. But John tipped Sherlock’s chin so he and John were making eye contact again. 

“Don’t you think it frightens me out of my mind as well? That’s why we’ve got to do this together.” John pulled Sherlock down to him and kissed him again, and Sherlock let it linger. A little whoop came from outside the office, and Sherlock quickly recognized the visage of Billy Wiggins standing outside his office and peeking in on the two of them. 

“Yeah, Johnny!” he was shouting. “Show him who’s boss!” John turned to see Billy, flashed him a thumbs-up, and resumed kissing Sherlock. The brunette’s doubt slowly started to fade, and he started to settle into his favorite pastime, which was kissing John. Once a larger crowd had gathered around Sherlock’s office, John broke the embrace again. He cupped Sherlock’s face in one of his hands and that look was there again-like John had found the answer to some massive question about life in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock blinked hard.

“Sherlock Holmes. My Sherlock.” John replaced his hand around Sherlock’s neck. “Let’s forget that annulment. Because I’d like to date you.” John slid his hands down from Sherlock’s neck to his hands. Sherlock leaned forward so his forehead was touching John’s. He couldn’t believe this was happening. 

“Aren’t you supposed to get down on one knee or something?” he murmured. 

“Is that a yes?” John squeezed Sherlock’s hands. “I’m going to take it as a yes.” And before Sherlock could say anything else, John was kissing him like he was the most precious thing on earth, and it was bewildering and overwhelming but it felt right. They were both breathless after just a few moments. 

“In the meantime, husband, I think we have an immigration meeting to get to.” John sighed, his eyes still shut.

The brunette felt a huge grin spreading across his face that he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. 

“I guess we should get on with it, shouldn’t we.” 

John held out his arm and Sherlock threaded his through the crook of John’s elbow, and he couldn’t help feeling perfectly in place with John-latched together, side by side. Just the two of them against the rest of the world.


	12. Epilogue: Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock celebrate their first wedding anniversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys. Here it is. Thanks for waiting so patiently for the epilogue; it was surprisingly difficult to write and went through no fewer than five drafts before making it up here on the AO3. I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Thanks so, so much for all of you who have stuck with me through this fic. It has made me so happy to see your comments and it's quite motivating to get comments, so if you like what you're reading, let me know. :)

Beads of warm water trailed down John’s chest and paused above his navel as he toweled his hair dry. Finally, a lengthy, refreshing shower with no water pressure issues. John had no idea what came over his husband when he decided to finally call the damn repairman, but John was glad he did. Sherlock appeared to still be downstairs, judging by the occasional clatter of silverware and dishes drifting up to their room. He hung the towel up and cinched his dressing-gown around his waist. Once John began padding down the stairs, the clattering stopped abruptly. Something was going on. He arrived at the landing to see Sherlock holding two steaming mugs of tea in either hand, one already partly empty. 

“Happy anniversary,” Sherlock greeted him, proffering the full mug. He was clad in his blue dressing-gown, and the tie was coming slightly undone around his waist. The rich blue fabric had opened enough at the top to reveal a small patch of curling chest hairs around the area of his breastbone. John took the mug, and reached out with his other hand to run a finger through the curls. 

“You remembered,” John remarked, leaving his hand on Sherlock’s chest and feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath it. 

“Of course I remembered. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Dunno, maybe because anniversaries are an artificial construct that have no meaning beyond what we assign to them?” 

A pause. 

“Well, true, but-” 

“But what?” A little smile started to grow on John’s face. 

“Well,” Sherlock flapped his hands at his sides. “I just wanted to-and this-well, it just sort of-happened.” Curious, John looked behind him towards the kitchen table. There was a single candle in the center, and a full platter of charred breakfast foods next to it. John looked back at his husband. 

“Sherlock.” 

“What. What.” 

“Did you cook breakfast for me?” 

More hand flapping. 

“I-John-I just thought this was what people did on anniversaries for their husbands. We should-the food will get-” 

But Sherlock couldn’t finish his sentence as John had set down his tea and pulled Sherlock’s head towards his own. John dotted little kisses at the corners of his husband’s mouth, on his chin, and on his full bottom lip. He paused there, and gently ran his tongue along the seam of Sherlock’s lips to ask for entry. 

Sherlock’s near-empty teacup clattered to the ground and shattered, forgotten. He wrapped his long arms around John’s waist and pulled him closer. John shut his eyes in order to memorize the feeling of Sherlock’s firm, warm body against his own. Sherlock allowed the blonde entry into his mouth and John gave a little moan of satisfaction as the kiss shifted into decidedly hungrier territory. They pressed closer together, and John wound a fist into Sherlock’s hair as he spent several moments paying attention to the gorgeous curve of Sherlock’s upper lip. He bit down on it gently and tugged, pleased at the noise that came out of Sherlock in response. 

The brunette maneuvered them sideways, and partway through his shuffle his eyes went wide. As the next several moments elapsed, it became clear through John’s lust-induced haze that Sherlock had nearly stepped on a sharp ceramic shard from the fallen teacup.They broke apart for a moment as Sherlock regained his balance. John couldn’t help bursting out laughing at the expression of offense on Sherlock’s face as he stomped over to the kitchen to get a dustpan and broom. He swept up the teacup pieces and threw them into the sink with a crash. Couldn’t be bothered to open the rubbish bin, John supposed. He returned to where John was standing and they shared a charged glance for a split second before John crowded Sherlock up against the wall and resumed the kiss. 

John was shorter than Sherlock, to be sure, but when they were in the heat of things, he still managed to envelop the taller man against the wall. God, he loved the way Sherlock melted against him; how his lips grew swollen and his eyes dark and hazy. A shift in their position brought John to a glaring awareness of Sherlock’s growing erection, his own becoming heavier in response to this new contact. He lifted Sherlock so that the taller man’s legs were wrapped around his waist. The brief moment of friction as their position changed brought fresh hisses out of both of them. Sherlock’s dressing-gown had fallen around his shoulders, and John scrabbled at it with a free hand until Sherlock got the picture and tried to wriggle out of it himself. This threw off John’s balance, and the pair came crashing to the floor. 

John started to get up, a laugh growing in his throat at their clumsiness today. All movement and sound was quickly stopped by the sight of Sherlock as he rose from the ground with his dressing-gown in a heap around his ankles. John drank in the sight of his husband, all sharp angles and pale skin. He was so distracted that he didn’t realize Sherlock was holding out a hand to help him up until the brunette softly spoke his name. John took the outstretched hand and rose to his feet. He had lost count of how many times he had seen Sherlock’s naked body, but each time felt like a fresh revelation. The intimacy of Sherlock standing nude before him was not lost on John, and he had to swallow down a little lump in his throat. 

The blonde didn’t hesitate when Sherlock reached for his shoulders and slid off John’s dressing-gown with a murmured “upstairs?” in his ear. 

“Oh, God, yes.” John took Sherlock’s hand and they scampered up to their bedroom, slamming the door shut behind them. Sherlock rooted around in his bedside drawer and John knew what he was going to say before the request was out of his mouth. 

“John.” Sherlock was holding up a tube of lube. God, he was gorgeous. Unruly curls, pupils blown wide, and an expression full of desperation and desire. “I want you to fuck me. Please. For our anniversary. I’m-I’m ready for it.” 

Sherlock's words brought John careening into him before he could comprehend what was happening, and it took several moments of fevered kissing before John recovered his senses and got around to the business of preparing Sherlock. Several breathless minutes later, Sherlock was open and pliant and begging John for more. 

“Please, John. I’m ready. I’m ready.” 

John continued his gentle pressing of his three fingers in Sherlock, partly to make sure the brunette was in fact ready, and partly because he loved the little gasps that escaped Sherlock’s throat each time he brushed by his prostate. 

“God! John!” Sherlock cried. John was convinced that Sherlock was ready this time, so he quickly rolled a condom on before carefully lining up with Sherlock’s entrance. He met Sherlock’s eyes. 

“And-and this is alright?” 

“Yes, John, it’s more than fucking alright,” Sherlock’s voice was strangled and he gripped John’s hips and slowly guided John inwards. The sharp exhale that transpired next felt as though it was shared between them, rather than two separate exhalations. 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John hissed. 

“More, go on, more.” Sherlock pulled John down to kiss him, and in his state of desperation was messy but John didn’t care. 

John gradually increased the speed of his thrusting, aware that he was already close as his motions quickly grew erratic and needy. His deep, rhythmic moans were met with sharp, keening cries from Sherlock, and the two sounds together wove a carnal harmony. It grew rapidly to a crescendo as John took Sherlock in hand and they came one right after the other, John losing all muscle control in his legs and falling from his position and onto his back next to Sherlock. 

They laid there for several moments, hazy and floating blissfully on the last waves of pleasure. 

“Thanks,” Sherlock managed after a bit. 

“For what?” 

"You. You're--I'm--well...you're good." Sherlock exhaled slowly, a faint blush covering his high, ivory cheeks as he struggled to string the words together. John brushed a thumb across the pad between Sherlock’s thumb and forefinger and waited for Sherlock to gather himself. “That was--very good,” the mad editor said finally. 

John leaned over to kiss Sherlock’s mouth but missed and ended up closer to his chin instead.

“Good. That’s good.” John enveloped Sherlock’s hand in both of his own. A pause. John continued. “You’re-you’re the love of my life, you know. The mad love of my bloody life.” He placed Sherlock’s hand over his heart, hoping it would say everything he couldn’t. The taller man turned to nuzzle John’s cheek. 

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after. :) Thank you for reading.
> 
> Now that Proposal!Verse has come to an end, I'll dry my eyes and head over to polish up my X-Men (Cherik) fic, and get that one up to snuff and length. It'll be another long one, like this one, but different fandom. So if you're interested in X-Men, come and make that journey with me. 
> 
> And finally, eternal thanks and gratitude to my writing partner in crime and beta, [hermadnessmac](hermadnessmac.tumblr.com). She's an amazing writer herself, and always offers a critical, constructive, creative eye to my writing, and I'm lucky to do the same for her. Check out her blog. 
> 
> And as always, come and hang out with me on the tumblr machine at [my blog](cumberwho-and-johnlock.tumblr.com). Always room for friends. 
> 
> Thanks again guys. This is my first multichapter-length fic, and it's been a really incredible journey delving into the world of fandom like this. You all are awesome.


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